


Third Wheel

by Bibliotecaria_D



Series: Third Wheel [1]
Category: Transformers - All Media Types, Transformers Generation One
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-01-01
Updated: 2016-05-22
Packaged: 2018-05-10 19:33:51
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 19
Words: 68,174
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5598187
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Bibliotecaria_D/pseuds/Bibliotecaria_D
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Jazz: he is beauty, he is grace, he is staring at that bumper yet again.</p><p>Pt. 19: Well, he's not dead yet.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

Jazz: he is beauty, he is grace, he is staring at that bumper yet again. 

**Title:** Third Wheel  
 **Warning:** This inhabits a weird area where it’s a humor fic, but people sensitive to misunderstandings causing serious discomfort probably shouldn’t read.  
 **Rating:** PG  
 **Continuity:** G1  
 **Characters:** Smokescreen, Jazz, Mirage, Bumblebee, Ironhide.  
 **Disclaimer:** The theatre doesn’t own the script or actors, nor does it make a profit from the play.  
 **Motivation (Prompt):** People on Tumblr were talking about ‘bots dribbling on themselves while fantasizing about voluptuous bumpers. It had to be written.

**[* * * * *]**  
 **Part One**   
**[* * * * *]**

 

The last thing Smokescreen expected his new commander to do was take one look at him and burst out laughing. "Tell me you're single!"

"Excuse me?"

"You! Are you single? Are you into dating?" The rust-red truckformer reined his laughter down to a broad grin. He turned it on Smokescreen, who didn't quite know how to react to a superior officer asking about his conjunx status. "Looking for a lay? At least tell me you're a tease!"

"I, uh." Well, alright then. He was, if nothing else, highly adaptable to every sort of social situation. Smokescreen put one hand on his hip and the other on his shined, sinfully smooth bumper. Yeah, he knew what people wanted from him. "Who, me?"

Ironhide broke into loud laughter again, this time reaching out to clap a hand on the rookie's shoulder. "That's the ticket, kid! Sorry, sorry, just...the Head of Strategic Planning's in and out of this base all the time workin' on our operations management, and swear to Primus, you're a dead ringer for his frametype. Colors ain’t identical, but nobody’s gonna care ‘bout that. ‘Specially since you got guns." He jerked his chins at Smokescreen’s shoulder-mounted weaponry. “Nice. T-90 missile launchers, right?”

“Um. Yeah.” Smokescreen blinked. He'd been looking for a good way to break the ice with his new unit, but this was the first time a method had been gift-wrapped and dropped into his lap this way. "So…people like Praxians around here?"

"Like 'em? Frag, mech, you're practically a fetish for some of my 'bots. You want a date, you'll have your pick of the lot. C'mon." The truckformer casually waved for Smokescreen to follow. "Lemme introduce you 'round. You let me know if anybody gets up where you don't want 'em, eh?"

Bemused, Smokescreen trailed after him. He knew there were subsets of mechs into nearly every different frametype built on Cybertron, but he'd never run into a nest of Praxian-lusters before. Sure, the occasional mech ogled his chest, but who wouldn’t? He looked good and knew it, but a whole base chasing his taillights was a bit over-the-top. It had to be exaggeration. The commander had described his soldiers like a harem on wheels. 

He decided to stick with a more neutral side of the topic to feel out the reality of it. "What's the TacHead like?" he asked.

Ironhide nodded to a soldier in the hall, grinning as the mech completely missed his salute due to gaping at Smokescreen's bumper. "Meticulous. Squeaky-clean an' 100% glued to the regs, I kid you not, and completely oblivious to anything that ain't on his tacnet. Drives us grunts up the wall, but he knows his stuff. Plus he looks like he just came off the assembly line."

"Can't stand the mech but love the scenery?" Smokescreen summed up, looking over his shoulder after the gaping soldier. Maybe Ironhide hadn’t exaggerated.

"'xactly."

Feeling a touch awkward as a small group of soldiers went by in the same way as the first, optics fixated on his chest, Smokescreen smiled at the next person they passed in an attempt to redirect attention back to his face instead of his front grill.

The mech literally walked into a wall. _Ker-thump!_

The Praxian almost stumbled himself, he was so surprised. "Uh..? What -- should we...help him?"

"Just the shock. Don't worry about it. Ain't ever seen Prowl so much as notice the chaos he leaves walkin' around the place." Ironhide shook his head. "Saw him smile once, and it knocked over the ranks like dominos. And look, he's fine. It'd take more than a wall to take out one of my mechs."

Sure enough, when Smokescreen looked back he saw the downed mech back upright. He also saw him staring fixedly at his aft. The Praxian gave it an experimental pop to the side as he walked, and _ker-thump!_

Oh dear. He’d have to take an oath to use this power only for good.

Ironhide sniggered without looking back. "You're gonna do just fine here, Smokes."

All in all, after a tour of the base and a briefing on local rules and regs, Smokescreen was feeling fairly confident he could handle this place. The constant staring might get obnoxious, but it wouldn’t be too bad. Everyone seemed very embarrassed to be caught out when he pointedly reset his vocalizer, anyway, as if they were unused to the object of their affection noticing the puddles of drool they left in his wake. 

So he was doing just fine right up until the black-and-white mech sitting in the middle of the mess hall stood up and threw a tray at his head. It was promptly followed by an empty cube, a full cube taken from a very surprised neighbor, another tray, and a few tablets with what looked like confidential reports encrypted on them.

Not that Smokescreen got a good look at them, since battlefield reflexes kicked in. He dodged the tray and immediately took cover from the barrage of miscellaneous items. "What the frag did I do to you?!" he yelled, ducking under the nearest table and covering his head with his arms.

He heard something wailed about being _'a cosmic joke'_ and _’why meeeee,'_ but he didn't come out from under the table to see what the fuss was. Somebody was throwing slag at him for no discernible reason. He wasn’t dumb enough to actively put his face at risk confronting the guy.

Eventually, things ceased dropping to floor just beyond Smokescreen’s makeshift shelter. His mysterious attacker had good aim, Smokescreen would grant him that. There were intense crashing noises for a little while, presumably as people with their bolts tightened all the way subdued the screw-loose, tray-throwing maniac. After some while longer, the crashing finally stopped. 

"We got him!" someone called. "It's safe! Sorry about that!"

Experience told him the battlefield wasn't clear yet. Wary, he peeked over the table edge, but it wasn’t a trick. A pile of vastly entertained mechs held the extremely grumpy berserker down by sheer metal mass, grinning the whole time as he flailed helplessly against their combined weight. It was kind of surprising how small the mech really was, at least now that he wasn’t flinging stuff. There wasn’t much to be seen of him at the moment, what with all the people laying on top of him.

On the far side of the mess hall, Ironhide was coughing his intakes clear. He'd apparently inhaled his ration into his ventilation system laughing at the one-sided fight, and most of the rest of the Autobots in the room weren't doing any better. It didn’t make Smokescreen feel any better about the bizarre attack, and he scowled at his new commander as muttering and thrashing came from the pinned black-and-white. What hadn’t he been told that was so funny?

"Who the frag's that?" Smokescreen demanded of the soldier helping him out from under the table. "Why's he hate me? What the Pit's going on around here?!"

The smile on the mech's face was far too cheerful for comforting a mech unjustly attacked out of nowhere. "That's Jazz. He’s Head of Special Ops."

It took a second to sink in.

Smokescreen took an additional second to thank his lucky stars he'd survived. 

His voice fell to a shrill whisper. "Why's the slagging head of SpecOps trying to kill me?!"

"Oh, he wasn't," he was assured, although Smokescreen felt the absolute opposite of reassured by that. "He's just a little frustrated. It's complicated. Don't worry about it. He'll make it up to you later. I'm Hound, by the way. You're the new guy, right?"

"Huh? Yeah, I'm Smokescreen," he said on automatic, because sanity came and went but good manners were forever. The inevitable wave of introductions around the table he'd hidden under kept him distracted from near-death by tray until he'd calmed down some.

Of course, by the time his fuel pump had slowed down to a reasonable rate, the rest of SpecOps had gotten their lieutenant under control. They clustered around him in a churning group for a few minutes, a defensive ring with their backs to the rest of the room. A head popped out of the circle every once and a while to survey the mess hall like a sentry on watch. By the time Smokescreen had introduced himself around to nearby tables and accepted an invitation to the seat beside Hound, the division had sorted itself out. 

Two of the group frog-marched Jazz over to dump on the bench opposite Smokescreen. Smokescreen froze like a cornered glitchmouse.

"Apologize," the bright yellow minibot on Jazz's right ordered.

Jazz glared at the tabletop and muttered something. There might have even been words involved, but Smokescreen wouldn't have bet on it.

The elegantly lithe mech standing like an art installation at Jazz's left shoulder cleared his throat delicately. And pointedly. Smokescreen wouldn't have been surprised if the mech was holding a knife to Jazz's back, just out of sight.

Jazz glanced to either side at his mechs, then heaved a sigh gustier than a stormwind. They obviously weren’t letting him get away without a fight. Conceding defeat, the black-and-white looked directly at Smokescreen. "Sorry 'bout that."

Smokescreen stared at him. The two SpecOps mechs exchanged exasperated looks. When it clear that was all their boss intended to say, the two _leaned_ on him, squashing him where he sat.

"Hey!"

The bright yellow one scowled. The blue one hissed in Jazz's audio. Whatever it was, it made Jazz flinch, a shamed look replacing the stubborn set to his face. He kept his mouth shut, however, visor shading a mulish blue.

Right. Smokescreen didn't want his cables slit in the middle of the night. It fell to him to smooth the incident over. "Did you attack me because of how I look, or because of whom I look like?" he asked, picking his words carefully.

Jazz stared at him, visor popped wide. Unfortunately, widening his visor that way made it awfully clear how his gaze dropped to Smokescreen's bumper. Smokescreen's polished, shiny, delectably grab-able bumper. The bumper every soldier he'd been introduced to so far -- and some he hadn't -- had stared at as though it were a lollipop they couldn't wait to lick down to the stick. 

A sad little mewl came out of the Head of SpecOps, and Jazz's head abruptly thumped to the table. Trays rattled from the force of it. 

His escorts exchanged another look before nodding ruefully at Smokescreen. "Both."

"Both?"

"Both," Jazz agreed miserably, muffled by the table. "You're just so -- and he's just like you, except you -- your hips did a **sway** thing as y'came through th' door, and -- and all I could think was -- " His explanation trailed off into mumbling about a bumper and wanting to touch but not daring to touch and the inherent unfairness of the universe.

Smokescreen blinked through the rambling explanation, picking out the relevant points from the incoherent bits. Also from the fantasy bits. He stored a few of Jazz's wishes away to try out later, once he figured out the list of volunteers at this base. The rest of the soldiers at the table with them were nodding along in agreement and sympathy to Jazz’s rambling explanation-slash-wishlist, expressions dreamy, and it make Smokescreen feel a little weird. Also like he’d hit the jackpot. A pair of very shiny frontliners down the table -- he swore they were twins, he had a sense for that kind of spark resonance -- were eyeing him up like starving Empties seeing an energon goodie. 

Best transfer ever.

And Jazz kept talking, miserable and _longing_. It was sort of pathetic but mostly just lovesick to an extreme.

"Mech," Smokescreen said at last, "you got it bad."

"He really does," the yellow 'bot said. He'd sat down some time around the part Jazz was making illustrative grabby motions with both hands on a line-up of empty ration cubes. His fellow guard disdained to sit down but nodded agreement. Jazz had it real bad.

"The worst part is that Prowl doesn't notice a thing," yellow mech -- introduced as Bumblebee during Jazz's speculation about how Prowl's hood would feel under his tongue -- said, leaning an elbow on the table as he confided in Smokescreen. "We could draw him a map to Dateville, hit him over the head with a ClueX4, drive him to the land of You're Smeltin' Hot, and let Jazz serenade him with a song about how bad he wants grope his headlights, and he'd **still** assume Jazz is hitting on him for the laughs."

Smokescreen digested that. "It doesn't seem very funny," he ventured.

"It's not!" Jazz moaned.

"Your inability to keep yourself oiled in his presence hardly helps Prowl take you seriously," blue mech -- Mirage, as formally introduced over the dying behemoth sounds Jazz had made while bemoaning his hopes and dreams of ever getting a kiss from Prowl -- said. Jazz whined pitifully. Mirage had no pity and informed Smokescreen, "He freezes up the second business is finished. He can be a professional seducer on the field, but outside of reports, he can’t string two words together in Prowl's presence. He makes a fool of himself. Prowl rightly assumes there's something off about the situation any time Jazz attempts to hit on him."

"Ya ain't helpin'!" Jazz batted at his subordinate. Friend. Enemy, at this point, because neither Bumblebee nor Mirage seemed to hold any sympathy for his plight. For that matter, most of the table was chuckling at his expense. This was what Ironhide hadn’t warned Smokescreen about. Jazz’s lack of love-life was the talk of the base.

"We've helped you more than you know," Mirage told Jazz.

"How?!"

"You've had a whole conversation at Smokescreen," Bumblebee said. He smiled. There was more sadism than encouragement in it, but he had a good point. Jazz finally lifted his head from the table, hopeful.

"After throwing things at me," Smokescreen pointed out.

Jazz's head went back down. _Thump._

"And ‘at’ me is right. You haven’t really talked with me, yet."

“I’d settle for remembering to close his mouth when he looks at you,” Mirage sighed.

Smokescreen struggled to keep a straight face. “Well, I wasn’t going to say anything…”

“Please do. He needs all the discipline he can get.” The aristocrat looked down at his boss with the expression of a mech handed a losing hand. “He has the self-control of a turbo-rat in a storage depot around Prowl.”

"Nngh." Yes, Jazz was aware of what his chances were. Please stop talking about how much he sucked.

"I'm not a hunk of shareware,” Smokescreen said to him. “I'm a person."

"Nngh!" Primus fraggit, yes, he knew! He was working on it!

"Do you mind if he practices on you?" Bumblebee asked the Praxian.

"Nnnnnngh!" No! No practice! Hadn't he been embarrassed enough today?

A sliver of blue still peeked over one arm, daring to hope for help.

Smokescreen prudently pushed his tray out of reach. "What kind of practice were you thinking?" He winked at the frontliners down the table, and they lit up, grinning back at him.

"Starting simple would be best. It might change Prowl's current opinion of his intelligence level if he stops tripping over his tongue,” Mirage drawled. "How about completing an exchange of 'How are you?'"

That bad? No way. Mirage had to be exaggerating.

Then again, Ironhide hadn’t been.

Smokescreen studied the subtle cringe as Jazz waited for an answer. Ohhhh dear. "I don't mind practicing that."

Bumblebee patted Jazz between the doors. “We’ll get you an award once you get through a whole conversation. With a frame and everything.”

Smokescreen gave him a mildly alarmed look, wondering what exactly he’d gotten himself into. Jazz just flopped himself on the table, giving up.

 

**[* * * * *]**


	2. Pt. 2

**Title:** Third Wheel  
 **Warning:** This inhabits a weird area where it’s a humor fic, but people sensitive to misunderstandings causing serious discomfort probably shouldn’t read.  
 **Rating:** PG  
 **Continuity:** G1  
 **Characters:** Smokescreen, Jazz, Prowl, Mirage, Hound, Warpath.  
 **Disclaimer:** The theatre doesn’t own the script or actors, nor does it make a profit from the play.  
 **Motivation (Prompt):** People on Tumblr were talking about ‘bots dribbling on themselves while fantasizing about voluptuous bumpers. It had to be written.

**[* * * * *]**  
 **Part Two**   
**[* * * * *]**

 

In Smokescreen’s considered opinion, Outpost 49-B6-4 had a case of frametype madness whipped to heights unheard of in Cybertron’s sordid history of fetishizing certain body parts. Vosian Seekers, long crowned the kings of wings, would be soundly ignored if they walked into this place. People actually ducked under Perceptor’s scope to stare at Smokescreen’s prominent chest. A pettier mech might have been disgruntled by the lack of attention -- anywhere else on the planet, the size of his scope fueled rampant speculation -- but Perceptor was performing his own scans at the time. He hardly disapproved of everyone joining him in, ahem, ‘scientific’ appreciation of the perfect curve of Smokescreen’s bumper. 

Perfect according to an entire sheet of mathematical equations Perceptor was profoundly delighted to explain using complicated terminology. It wasn’t the first time Smokescreen had been someone’s case study, but it was the first time he’d seen the presentation hall packed for a dissertation. Even Ironhide took notes. The Q&A session afterward was intense. Perceptor defended his work using charts, graphics, and graphic charts. Copies were demanded by the audience. Further study was determined necessary. Suggestions were made for new directions in the science of mmhmm, that hood. 

The debate on optimal colors for showcasing wheelwell placement divided the mess hall nightly. Seriously, the outpost had Praxian-lust honed to an alarming degree of desire that actually involved alarms. Red Alert hit the special bells and whistles whenever Prowl was incoming.

After witnessing the Head of Strategic Planning in action, Smokescreen had to admit the apparent insanity made sense. Because frag, mech. That was a _fine_ hood, and the TacHead kept it cooler than ice under pressure. Getting handed orders from some bolthead who stayed indoors made no grunt happy. Seeing the TacHead standing among the officers in the ranks mollified many soldiers. Witnessing that same TacHead holding the line with them like some sort of legendary aftkicker, well, that sealed it. Prowl rode eternal, shining and chrome. Sign Smokescreen up at as a fanbot.

The mech proved worthy of being crushed on, that was for certain. The Autobots around Smokescreen had watched with smitten expressions as Prowl took his place among them on the top of the makeshift wall as the Decepticons charged. Gun out, ready to repel the attack, he’d shouted order revisions from his tacnet onto the Autobot network in a relatively calm, forceful voice without a trace of panic even as he brought his targeting sights online. The changes had been tactical, not emotional, given according to the updated battle plan working through his internal map of ongoing combat and the overall strategy for the area. The Autobots could still entrench here. They simply had to hold the line until reinforcements arrived to counter the attack.

Autobots had redirected according to his orders, knowing he knew best and trusting he wouldn’t throw their lives away to save his own. Having been in different units under less-than-stellar officers prior to this outpost, Smokescreen had been surprised at the trust Outpost 49-B6-4 put in a mere planner. The soldiers surged to Prowl’s side, guarding his back with their weapons raised waiting for his command. The frontliners crouched in ragged ranks in front of him, anticipating the word to attack, brutal fighters eagerly growling on the end of leashes surrendered to his hand. Prowl’s stiff formality fell away to raw authority in a thin skin over a brilliant mind, and the cold, hard reason behind blue optics blazed up in absolute confidence in the Autobots around him. He trusted them as much as he’d proven worthy of their trust, and their rapport whipped morale into a frenzy the Decepticons didn’t stand a chance against. 

TacHead or not, Prowl had _presence_ out on the field. Smokescreen didn’t even know the mech and he already knew he’d like the guy. He didn’t have charisma like Optimus Prime, he didn’t have Ironhide’s soldier-to-soldier comradie, he didn’t have Jazz’s easy, dangerous humor, but Prowl had something a charming personality couldn’t supply. Smokescreen would rather see a solid core of competency in the person responsible for spending Autobots lives to buy ground in battle. They wouldn’t be going out for drinks together later, but capable beat companionable by Smokescreen’s odds.

Besides, he had to admire Prowl’s titanium nerve. Nobody without bearing diameter to spare could have kept his doors rigid while Decepticons stormed the barricade. Smokescreen shared the frametype. He knew how much control it took not to twitch the doors. Normal tension of shoulders and chest other frametypes took for granted broadcast a Praxian’s mood like a neon billboard of stress levels as their doors naturally moved. The slagging hinges were loaded with sensors for their altmodes, too, so they couldn’t just lock them down and forget about them.

So, yeah. Yeah, he could see how an entire outpost could fall helm-over-wheels for one mech. It was smelting _hot_ how Prowl moved. Economy of movement, on or off the battlefield, and so tightly wound it took seeing him cut loose to realize the potential hiding under that polished hood. Combine it with a sharp mind like none other, and Primus, Smokescreen could invite the whole outpost into his bunk if he wanted. Everybody wanted a piece of Prowl, and their lust transferred to the Praxian frametype without a hitch. 

“I think I get it now,” he said out of the corner of his mouth to Mirage. They were both seated on the waiting benches in the medibay, triaged for treatment with every other after-action casualty. The injured sat in rows like an audience for Jazz reporting to Prowl across the room.

“Please don’t tell me you’re going to ask him out, too,” Mirage murmured back, optics never leaving the show. “Jazz will throw another tray at you if you turn yourself into competition.” 

Heads nodded vigorous agreement around them. It was an open secret how bad Jazz wanted Prowl. No surprise to Smokescreen, now that he’d seen Prowl on the barricade. Jazz’s crush made complete sense after watching the TacHead in action. Of course Jazz wanted Prowl. The mech was everything delicious, physical and mental, and Jazz was an extremely passionate, sensual person. He fell with the inescapable power of an avalanche, and once hooked, his spark chamber was as attracted to Prowl as iron filings were to a magnet.

Smokescreen understood, but that didn’t mean he couldn’t give Jazz grief over it. “I don’t know,” Smokescreen drew out teasingly. “Prowl’s got that Enforcer P.I.T. bumper guard going on. Grille protection is an important safety feature.”

“What, for interfacing?” somebody said from two rows back, and snickering rippled along the benches. “Hand holds, am I right?” Several mechs made groping motions in agreement.

“Chew toy,” someone else added. “Bury your face in it. Pin you down under that bumper, and it’s like a bit gag, if you get my drift.”

The snickering became a group gasp.

A moment of silence was held for their collective libido. It filled their end of the medibay. Everyone imagined being buried under that magnificent bumper, and cooling fans clicked on, whirring away busily. A faint moan from the front row broke the silence, a reverent prayer properly savoring the idea.

Smokescreen pictured doing the bumper-smothering himself, stamped approval on the idea, and resolved to try it later. Holding someone down with his chest sounded like fun.

“I’d combust imaging the two of you together,” Hound said, leaning in from the bench behind him. 

“Lucky for you I’m dating the twins, then,” Smokescreen retorted. “Get your minds out of the gutter, all of you! Poaching’s not my style.”

“It’s not poaching if he’s not interested in Jazz,” a wiseaft started, but several clangs announced his neighbors shutting him up.

Mirage was startled enough to look away from the show for a brief second. He shot Smokescreen a startled glance. “You’re dating the twins?”

“As of two nights ago, yeah.”

“Ah.” The spy relaxed and turned back to monitoring his boss’ discussion of business with Prowl. It seemed that Special Operations’ biggest uncover mission was acting as Jazz’s silent cheerleading squad, or at least evaluating his courting attempts for quality control.

Smokescreen watched Mirage watch Jazz and grinned. All SpecOps mechs were gossipmongers. Being out of the loop on inside information made the lot of them twitch, and they’d pick and snoop until they nosed their way back into the know. The actual content of the gossip they gathered sometimes took a moment to sink in, however.

He waited patiently.

Sure enough, Mirage tensed back up. His head whipped around, optics marginally wider. “Wait. You’re dating the **twins**?”

“That’s what I said.” 

“I…both of them?”

“Yup.”

The rest of the crowd showed the slack-faced shock Mirage was too dignified to display. “At once?” Hound squeaked for everyone.

Smokescreen smirked. “Both at once.” He was comfortable with it. He’d had two days to adjust and had no problem enjoying the half-scandalized whispers springing up around him. 

“Do they know?!”

He turned to give his friend a raised optic ridge. “I should hope so, since they asked me out together.”

Half-scandalized turned to fully delighted speculation. “How’s that even work?” Hound marveled, and Mirage made a little noise of affront on Smokescreen’s behalf. Everyone else silently thanked Hound for the lack of tact as they leaned in to hear the juicy details.

Smokescreen laughed, unoffended. “Two words, folks: Praxian sandwich.”

The mental picture registered first. Reaction came out in various tones and lengths: a low, awed _’Oohhhh’_ of appreciation.

Mirage sacrificed aristocratic manners for laymech curiosity. “So they don’t, ah..?”

“Nah, they don’t ‘face each other.” Smokescreen waited out the disappointed _’awww’_ before adding, “But if I ever convince them to kiss, trust me, I’ll take pictures.” 

“ **Pow!** Heads up!” Warpath hissed from the front row, interrupting the resultant sputtering. “He’s **yowza** making his move!”

Smokescreen leaned forward with the crowd, topic forgotten in favor the painfully awkward spectacle that was Jazz failing to flirt. “Oh, Primus, I don’t know if I can watch this,” he whispered after a minute.

“Understandable, but this is a bare fraction of the usual mess he makes falling over himself,” Mirage said. Heads nodded around them, although no one looked away. “You have helped him considerably.”

“Are you serious?”

“You have no idea,” Hound confirmed, hand pushing Smokescreen’s door down so he could peer over the Praxian’s shoulder. “He’s managing coherent sentences.”

“And he’s keeping his hands down,” Mirage agreed. “Your training has paid off.”

Smokescreen gave him an appalled look. Jazz never touched, but oh, it was so very obvious he wanted to. It wasn’t necessary to use one’s imagination when hands mimed smoothing over an invisible bumper. Smokescreen had slapped Jazz’s hands down out of half-formed needy reaching so many times his palms ached. “He actually does the hand thing? I thought he was joking!”

Mirage gave him a long-suffering look. “Now you know why Prowl doesn’t take him seriously. Yes, he does the hand thing. He did, anyway.” He turned back to the show. 

Jazz shifted from foot to foot across the room, a picture of jittery nerves. The conversation had turned from professional to personal. His sultry smile of only a couple minutes ago had petrified into a frozen, off-center rictus grin of terror. Forcing a swallow, he tried again, but his teeth seemed to be buried in his lower lip, which had to make speaking difficult. His hands were slapped flat to his sides. From the looks of it, he was using his palm grapplers to magnetize them directly to his thighs.

Smokescreen had never seen a stiffer mechanism in his life, but Mirage nodded approval beside him. “This is a huge improvement. He hasn’t dropped everything to stare at Prowl’s chest!”

“ **Wham!** They’re talking. It’s **kazaam** amazing.” Warpath eyed Smokescreen. “You do **bam** good work. Can I talk to **hi-ya** you later?”

“Shhh!” An elbow to the side shut Warpath up. Eavesdropping and Warpath didn’t go well together.

Slightly disturbed, Smokescreen shook his head and went back to watching the outpost’s greatest drama. 

Prowl, to Smokescreen’s surprise, had his doors up in open wariness. Whatever Prowl was used to from Jazz, conversation wasn’t it. Even if it was the most stilted attempt at normal small talk in the history of the universe. Now Smokescreen understood why Jazz had insisted on practicing everyday exchanges with him daily, hellos and how-are-yous in an endless drill until, it seemed, even paralyzed terror of screwing up couldn’t banish the words from Jazz’s processor.

And the longer the rote exchange of utterly normal social interaction went on, the more tension ebbed from Prowl. Amazed, Smokescreen watched as black-and-white doors slowly eased down. Suspicion held them spread in an unconscious intimidation technique that did Jazz’s nerves no good, but interest was replacing Prowl’s distrust in the tiniest, most gradual increments. 

“Don’t look, don’t look,” half the audience chanted in the quietest cheer. “Stay cool, stay cool,” the other half urged through excited smiles. Even the medibay staff was covertly watching, optics glowing encouragement. 

Personally, Smokescreen thought Jazz might stand a chance at this if he kept his head. Prowl wouldn’t be tolerating his attention if there wasn’t some form of mutual attraction, or at least that’s what Smokescreen read off the angle of his doors. Prowl had complete control on-duty, cool as a drone, but that tacnet of his didn’t seem to apply to off-duty, interpersonal relations. The doors betrayed him. They wavered, tips bobbing as Prowl tried to get a read on Jazz’s intentions. He wouldn’t be doing that if he’d already made up his mind about the mech.

“Disengage,” Mirage coaxed as if Jazz could hear him. “Disengage and retreat. The groundwork’s laid. Don’t overextend yourself.”

“Aw, frag, he’s gonna ask him out,” Hound complained.

Warpath huffed, nodding. “Here we **blammo** go again.”

“Bad idea?” Smokescreen asked, optics on Jazz. The black-and-white drew a visibly deep vent, visor hopeful, and he couldn’t help but silently urge the mech on.

Mirage grimaced. “I have tried and tried to warn him, but…”

“He does the same thing every time,” a dozen people sighed as one.

“I can’t seem to break him of the habit,” Mirage finished.

Smokescreen frowned, watching. Venting out, Jazz slid into a deliberately casual stance, right hand coming up to rest on his hip. He flashed a bright smile at Prowl, and Smokescreen didn’t understand. Prowl was tense, but not nearly as tense as before. If the problem was how receptive he was to advances, this was possibly the most receptive he’d ever been, judging by the tales Smokescreen had been told of Jazz’s epic failures. The worst he’d do was turn Jazz down, and that was to be expected considering his opinion of the saboteur before today. “I think he’ll be fine -- “

Which was when Jazz leaned to the left, propping his left elbow on thin air.

“Same thing every time,” everybody groaned, trying not to laugh, but it was a lost cause. A huge uproar of snorted, giggled, and outright bellowed laughter rocked the medibay. Medics struggled to keep straight faces as they worked. Patients clutched their injuries as they doubled over. Ironhide’s guffaws soared loudest of all, tact bulldozed by pain-patches keeping him too drugged to feel his missing legs or any sympathy. At least the rows of soldiers waiting on the benches had the decency to clap their hands over their mouths, trying to muffle their helpless laughter as Jazz clattered to the floor, clipping the sideboard he’d evidently been aiming for on his way down. Two surgery trays and all the equipment on them were sent flying up into the air before raining down to the floor on top of him. A laser scalpel arched in slow-motion across the room to hit at just the right angle to sever an important cord, and five spark monitors started shrieking fatal failure as their attachments registered nothing on the other end. The patients hooked up to them wheezed laughter harder yet, and even the nurse rushing to fix the equipment giggled.

The medbay became a laugh riot. Lips tightened to a thin, disapproving line, Prowl spun on his heel and strode from the medibay, doors unmoving on his back as chaos unfolded behind him. The deeply offended V-angle telegraphed what he thought of the laughter, or more specifically, why he thought everyone was laughing, and Smokescreen couldn’t blame him in the least. The calm, composed Head of Special Operations flailed about on the floor in his wake, and to someone who didn’t know why, it had to look like a pratfall. A joke made at his expense. The unofficial morale officer was turning Prowl into the butt of cruel jokes centered around flirting, comments on his appearance, earnest, seemingly-sincere compliments that ended in Jazz acting a fool for laughs.

It really, truly didn’t help that Prowl looked smoking hot marching from the room. Anger became the mech, even if he obviously didn’t believe a word about how attractive everyone found him.

Jazz slumped onto the bench between Mirage and Smokescreen a minute later, a bit more dented than he’d been coming into the medibay and a whole lot more miserable. “He talked t’ me.”

“There, there.” Mirage patted his shoulder, then paused, a strange look creeping over his aristocratic features. “Jazz…are you malfunctioning?”

The others were picking up on the same thing he had. Heat billowed off Jazz like a furnace. His fans labored at top speed. Smokescreen felt like his side was baking, pressed against Jazz’s smelt-hot armor as he was. 

Jazz folded up, helm thumping onto his knees, and repeated, “He **talked** t’ me!”

“I’m somewhat impressed you managed to talk back,” Mirage said, staring at the hand he’d patted his boss with. “Exactly how overclocked are your processors right now? Should I page a nurse?” A small whine answered him. Mirage lifted his hand to wave down Wheeljack.

Smokescreen scooted down the bench to get away from the heat and shook his head. “We need to practice more.”

“Nnngh,” Jazz said into his knees. He didn’t disagree.

 

**[* * * * *]**


	3. Pt. 3

**Title:** Third Wheel  
 **Warning:** This inhabits a weird area where it’s a humor fic, but people sensitive to misunderstandings causing serious discomfort probably shouldn’t read.  
 **Rating:** PG  
 **Continuity:** G1  
 **Characters:** Smokescreen, Jazz, Prowl, Bumblebee, Wheeljack, Blaster.  
 **Disclaimer:** The theatre doesn’t own the script or actors, nor does it make a profit from the play.  
 **Motivation (Prompt):** People on Tumblr were talking about ‘bots dribbling on themselves while fantasizing about voluptuous bumpers. It had to be written.

**[* * * * *]**   
**Part Three**   
**[* * * * *]**

 

Smokescreen did a double-take as he passed Prowl in the hall. He certainly wasn’t the only one doing that, but he could safely say he was the only mech doing it for reasons other than how devastatingly attractive Prowl’s doors were at that angle. Uplifted in a highly offended huff, they were a perfect frame for his helm, a natural channel funneling attention from door tips down to front grille. Poor Trailbreaker walked smack into a wall. 

Smokescreen was relatively immune to Prowl’s looks. Those were nice doors, but they were old news to a fellow Praxian. Even Prowl’s bumper didn’t get more than a few seconds staring from him most days. Today, however, the blue glass embedded in Prowl’s forearm triggered Smokescreen to spin and take a second look. Blue glass? That shade of blue precisely?

Primus save him from poor odds, because he wouldn’t bet he didn’t know whose visor those shards belonged to. Smokescreen stared after the TacHead for a minute. For the life of him, he couldn’t figure out how Jazz had managed to screw up so spectacularly Prowl had pieces of him physically stuck into his forearm. He wasn’t sure he wanted to know, for that matter. What was it about Prowl that turned Jazz’s attempts to court him into increasingly ridiculous, improbable episodes of _General Practitioner_? Watching Jazz try to hold simple conversations with the mech was like witnessing one trainwreck after another, each one more inappropriately funny than the last.

And somehow, Smokescreen had been elected train conductor. Sighing, he resigned himself to finding the wayward Head of Special Operations for what promised to be a doozy of an explanation. If he knew the unstable chemistry between Jazz and Prowl, it promised to be something absurdly dramatic.

True to prediction, it was. “He…slapped you.” 

Jazz had his cracked visor buried in both hands, elbows on his knees. It was partially to hide whatever the missing glass exposed, but it was also from utter, appalled shame at his own behavior. He could handle everything his division or the Decepticons threw at him, but Primus take the wheel if it involved Prowl. “Yes, okay?! For the fifth time, ya daft glitch, yes, he slapped me!”

“Backhanded him right through a door, I hear,” Bumblebee said, popping up at his boss’ side like malware that refused to purge. “Wah-pow! And the Praxian judge gives him a -1 out of 10 for form! He’ll really have to impress the other judges to stay in the competition, folks.”

Wheeljack didn’t so much as flinch at the sudden announcer voice beside him. The mech had worked through explosions. Sports commentators had nothing on missing a leg while heading a landmine disarmament team. He simply lifted his elbow to allow the yellow scout to duck under his arm and hop up to sit on the repair slab. 

Bumblebee watched him work on the side of Jazz’s head, interested. Wheeljack was no medic, but he was a passable nurse, and he knew his way around more of Special Ops’ little unmentioned, unrecorded add-on mods than any certified medic would admit to. Possibly because he’d designed and installed a decent chunk of them. Also something no certified medic would admit to for reasons of professional ethics, but reclassified or not, Wheeljack was still more inventive engineer than nurse. He had all kinds of ethical leeway, comparatively.

In any case, the base medic had a reputation for freaking out a bit when Special Ops mechs randomly appeared in the medbay. It was either Wheeljack or a medic with a serious case of jitters, and Special Ops had eventually just started going straight to the nurse. Smokescreen didn’t know what was up with Ambulon, but people gossiped about seeing a purple paintjob when his topcoat flaked. A Decepticon defector would have plenty of reasons to be nervous in Jazz’s presence, however pitiable Jazz might appear today.

The black-and-white’s engine stalled, transmission grinding loudly he popped out of gear. It was a sound of supreme frustration. “Fragging Pit, how’d you find out already? Do rumors fragging teleport ‘round here?”

Smokescreen looked at Bumblebee. Bumblebee shrugged and looked at Wheeljack. 

Wheeljack didn’t look up from his work, but his vocal indicators flashed amusement at his patient. “Don’t look at me. You told me you tripped. I didn’t know any better until just now.”

Jazz drooped further, doors wilting down to tuck under his altmode roof on his back. He was his own information leak. Oops. Ouch.

After a second, he muttered, “You weren’t fallin’ for it, anyway.”

“Nope. But I was going to write it down on your chart since that’s what you told me. It’s not the first time you’ve spun your attending medic a patently untrue tale as an explanation for some injury or another.” Wheeljack seemed strangely cheerful about being lied to. It probably had to do with his personal history of fact being stranger than fiction. “Your medical history is the most inaccurate patient document on file, I’ll have you know.”

“Heh.” Teeth flashed from beneath Jazz’s hands. “Nice to know my best stories are bein’ documented somewhere.”

“Jaaaaazz,” Smokescreen drew out, and the black-and-white mech winced. Evasion detected: prepare for scolding. “ **Why** did you let Prowl land one on you?” He’d seen Prowl fight. He’d seen Jazz fight. He wouldn’t want to see either of them fight each other, but given what he’d seen of their fighting styles, Prowl should have shown a lot more damage if he’d taken the slagging Head of SpecOps on. Given Prowl’s undented status, Smokescreen was forced to conclude that Jazz allowed the slap to land uncontested. Which meant Jazz believed he deserved it.

Hence Smokescreen chiding him in the tone of a particularly fed-up instructor taking a student to task. Sometimes, one had to squeeze Jazz until an answer popped out, especially when it was about Prowl in some way, shape, or form. Jazz had a bad habit of clamming up like he was under enemy interrogation about the most painfully obvious things possible, like his feelings for Prowl, then blurting out confessions the second something less emotionally incriminating crossed his mind. Like wanting to motorboat Prowl’s hood.

It did explain his lack of progress in courting the mech. 

“Looks like I’ve got perfect timing!” a jovial voice called from the medbay door, and Jazz flattened into a miserable puddle of monochrome plating on the repair slab, visor still hidden in his hands. His non-existent love-life was a spectator sport, and it was never more obvious than when Blaster joined the small crowd gathered around him.

Blaster nodded to Wheeljack and bumped fists with Bumblebee. “Nuts and bolts do I got a story to tell. I’ve got good news and bad news, m’mech,” he said to Smokescreen as he clapped a hand on the Praxian’s shoulder in companionable greeting.

Smokescreen eyed him sidelong, justifiably leery of anything Blaster deemed ‘good news.’ If Bumblebee was the announcer doing commentary, then Blaster was the heckler jeering from the back of the audience. “Are we getting more transfers?” Please, no, spare him that. He wasn’t sure who, he wasn’t sure how, but his position as base relationship counselor had been established not a week after his arrival, and it’d only cemented into permanent duty since. The last wave of Autobots transferred into the base had been matter-of-factly informed of his specialty by Ironhide as the commander ushered the group past during the tour.

That’d been the first Smokescreen himself had heard of his job as anything official, but it sure explained the frag out of the Cliffjumper and Mirage thing he’d mysteriously ended up in the middle of. At the time, he’d assumed everyone else had taken the good hiding spots and left him out in the open to take the inevitable detonation as a sacrifice to the gods of opposites attracting.

Blaster laughed as if Smokescreen was joking. “No, mech! I’m talking about the Jazzmeister here.” 

Bumblebee gave him the same fascinated look he’d given Wheeljack’s work. Smokescreen’s suspicion eased into interest as well, and Jazz sank into himself like an accordion deflating, pathetic wheezing groan and all. 

The comm. specialist gave them a thumbs-up. “So hear this: the talks are paying off! Prowl had his Thinking Look on while we were getting ready for the conference call with the Big Shots. I caught him giving Ironhide and Jazz something I’d classify as a,” he made air-quotes, grin nearly splitting his face in two, “ _’I wonder if..?’_ stare. Like, wondering if it’s true what you said, eh? Eeeeh?” He nudged Smokescreen with his elbow. “Good, right?”

“Could be,” Smokescreen allowed, “but I wouldn’t put money on it. He probably had plenty on his mind going into a meeting with Ultra Magnus and the Prime -- “

“Ah-ah!” Blaster tick-tocked a finger to interrupt him. “But wait! There’s more.” Palms down, he spread his hands as if he was laying out cards in front of Smokescreen and leaned forward, still wearing his most exuberant grin. “Okay, so he’s thinking, trust me, he’s thinking about what everybody **else** is thinking when they look at him, just like you’ve been telling him, right? Praxian-to-Praxian talks about you guys’ big beautiful bumpers, awwww yeah, you tell him what we like, mmhmm, but here’s what he does next.” Optics sparkling his glee, he leaned in, fingers draw into little claws going type-type at thin air. “I’m inputting the codes for the call, right? And I get Ultra Magnus up on the screen, commline secure, but I see this weird motion,” he gestured off to the side, “just something outta the corner of my optic. I glance over like ya do, and guess what I see?” 

Bumblebee, Smokescreen, and, by now, Wheeljack blinked at him, waiting for the punchline. Jazz grumbled his engine without looking up. Blaster all but bounced on his heels, waiting.

“Prowl?” Wheeljack guessed at last.

“Prowl!” Blaster did a little hop, as if he couldn’t contain his excitement. “Fondling himself!”

“What?!”

“Blaster!”

“Oh, come on,” Smokescreen sighed through Bumblebee and Wheeljack’s spluttering. “No wonder you know all the gossip, if you’re making up scrap like th -- “

“No, no, for real!” Blaster interrupted him again. “Swear on my spark and hope to gray, he was pretending to wipe a smudge off his bumper, and mech, I **know** he was pretending ‘cause you gotta know Red’s got that shine under surveillance every second he’s on base, and he confirmed what I already knew.” Blaster grabbed Smokescreen by both shoulders, smiling hugely. “No smudge, Smokes. Prowl did it just to watch us. He wanted to see if we reacted!”

“Wow.” Smokescreen blinked. It took a second to fully sink in, but then he smiled back at Blaster. “That’s great! That’s -- ha!“ Elated, he turned his smile on Jazz. “This is great news! You reacted, I mean, obviously,” the cracked visor suddenly made sense, depending on how flustered Jazz’s reaction had made Prowl, “but how did he take it? What did you do? What did **you** do?” He pointed at Blaster. “Was it convincing? Did he seem convinced? I keep telling and telling him everybody wants a piece of his bumper, but he never seems to believe people find him hot. Wow. Wow, this is the first time I’ve heard about him doing anything like this.” 

Blaster shook his head at the inquiring look. “Nothing on the network. He’s 100% the poster’bot for Rules and Regulation on-duty, and nobody’s said Word One about him relaxing when he’s off-duty.”

“That’s wonderful,” Smokescreen said. Operation: Not A Joke had taken a step forward! Next they had to prod Jazz through one actual conversation with Prowl, and maybe someday soon the TacHead would start thinking of himself as an extremely attractive hotbot instead of the target of meanspirited pranks. 

Wait.

“Tell me you didn’t throw a tray at Ironhide for looking at Prowl,” he demanded of Jazz.

Who didn’t look up. “I didn’t.”

“Okay. Good.”

“Weeeeell,” Blaster drew out, and Smokescreen flinched at the same time Jazz did. “Good’s not exactly how I’d put it.”

“How’d you put it?” Bumblebee dared ask.

Jazz hunched down so far Wheeljack had to bend over to work on the side of his helm. “A total SNAFU,” the confident, easygoing Head of Special Ops mumbled through a thick slathering of shame.

Blaster’s grin died into a sheepish expression. “Kinda accurate, that. Uh, yeah, so Prowl got plenty of reactions. Good!” Thumbs-up again, although this time the comm. specialist’s smile was sickly. “Ironhide’s engine turned over, like, whoa, loud, and Ultra Magnus -- seriously, this happened, Red Alert as my witness -- Ultra Magnus’s got these smoke stacks, you ever seen them?” His hands made strange motions probably meant to signify smoke stacks on top of his shoulders. “And he didn’t change expression at all, best stoic face in the universe, but they chugged smoke. Poof. And of course Jazz here slipped on nothing and faceplanted right onto my keyboard, wham!”

Smokescreen, Bumblebee, and Wheeljack all looked at Jazz.

“But that wasn’t the bad part.”

Realistically, no, it wasn’t. Prowl’s presence regularly reduced Jazz to a one-mech circus act of graceless screw-ups. 

Meaning that whatever he’d done this time had been exceptionally dreadful. 

Oh, no.

A cold pit yawned open in Smokescreen’s tanks. He slowly turned his head to stare at Blaster. 

“I kind of lost it when I saw, well, uh,” Blaster coughed into his fist, “fingers. In grill. Just…y’know.” Wheeljack and Bumblebee nodded, understanding his point completely. “And Jazz landed on my hands, right? So he slammed onto the broadcast panel.”

Horror filled the pit. “Did the -- are you telling me the call went through? Frag, did Optimus Prime see this happen?” He could sort of picture Prowl slapping Jazz for that humiliation. There was nothing quite like being embarrassed in front of his leader to incense an officer like Prowl. 

Blaster coughed again, voice going a little high-pitched. “No? My hands mashed the last six digits of the comm. frequency, like a random scramble, and…” He cast his optics downward as if looking for salvation from Primus below. “Long story short, we accidentally discovered a private console frequency. For Darkmount.”

Wheeljack stopped working. Bumblebee lost his jaw. Smokescreen just stared.

Blaster smiled helplessly, a hardwired reflex response to something so impossible it had to be true. “So, uh, we prank-called Megatron.”

Smokescreen took it back. There was something comparable to being embarrassed in front of the leader of the Autobots, and that was being embarrassed in front of the leader of the Decepticons. “What happened?” someone said, and Smokescreen was surprised to realized the squeaky voice was his.

Blaster heaved a breath, fans cycling rapidly. “This is where the bad news comes in.”

“Primus! That wasn’t bad enough?” Wheeljack yelped, and Bumblebee nodded numb agreement.

“Not really, nah. See, Megs came up on the screen, and we all froze ‘cause what the frag, mech, but Prowl kept his head. Good, right?” Blaster shrugged. “And he did that pose. You know. The Pose.”

Smokescreen straightened up, crossing his arms so they covered his bumper. They made a nice frame for the rest of his chest, however, and he knew exactly what it looked like when Prowl did it. Which he did. Frequently. Mech had _no_ idea how people swooned around him on a daily basis. “This pose?”

“Yeah, got it in one. **That** pose. So he’s staring ol’ Buckethead down like duh, obviously we’d called him on purpose, and…” Swallowing hard, Blaster trailed off. He seemed stuck in a preemptive wince. 

Jazz finally spoke up, muffled slightly by how he hid his face. “I panicked, ‘k? Felt like I was runnin’ overcharged. I didn’t know what the frag was goin’ on. I went down, rolled off into his lap,” he freed one hand to point like an accusation at Blaster, “an’ when I sat up, fraggin’ **Megatron** was lookin’ down at me like a nightmare. Didn’t seem real. I just had this overwhelmin’ feeling it was all a dream, and I panicked.” He brought his hand back, but this time he clutched one of his helm projections so tightly it had to hurt. 

Bumblebee stared at him as if Unicron had possessed the mech. “What’d you do, boss?”

Blaster laughed somewhat wildly. “He sat up in front of Prowl, saw Megatron, and did this right under Prowl’s chest!” He flung his arms out in an upturned curve as though he were presenting something to the room at large. “And he said -- ahahaha, mechs, he said -- “

Jazz sighed gustily over Blaster’s hysterical laughter. “I said, ‘Good evening sir, do you have a moment t’ talk about Our Lord and Savior of the Divine Headlights?’” 

Smokescreen had no response. None. Blaster had lost control, doubled over as he laughed helplessly, and Bumblebee was opening and closing his mouth silently. Wheeljack shut off his optics, shook his head, and went back to working without comment, but Smokescreen could only stare.

“And then Prowl slapped you?” he asked weakly after a couple minutes.

Jazz’s shoulders sagged. “Yeah. Wasn’t even surprised. Kinda expected worse.”

“Wait, wait,” Blaster got out through spasms of laughter, “y-you’re missing the best part. You gotta tell what happened first!” And by ‘you tell’ he clearly meant that _he_ was going to tell everyone and nothing but outright assassination was going to stop him.

“I hate you,” Jazz hissed, but the comm. specialist waved away the murderous tone directed at him.

“Prowler didn’t slap him ‘til after Megs hung up, but he couldn’t look away from those headlights long enough to find the End Call button, so Megs, Megatron, the Slagmaker himself, he was all,” Blaster mimed poking at an invisible keyboard while staring fixedly ahead of himself. He broke character to keep laughing so hard static spit out between gasping breaths. “Took him five tries to get the right key!”

“What, really?” Wheeljack looked impressed. “Only five?”

“That part doesn’t surprise me,” Bumblebee said, nodding. “Prowl slapping you is what I’ve been wondering about.” Jazz lifted his broken visor out of his hands just enough to shoot his subordinate a glower, and the yellow minibot put his hands up in surrender. “It was weird! I heard Prowl had backhanded you through the door of the comm. room, and it didn’t make any sense!”

“It makes perfect sense in context,” Wheeljack disagreed. The others looked at him, even Jazz, and he blinked. “Chain of command. Ironhide hates mediating personnel conflicts between equal ranks, and Ultra Magnus isn’t the most personable commander. He won’t get involved if Ironhide handles it, and Ironhide will consider it handled if both parties drop the issue, which I’m assuming you did,” he said to Jazz, “since you didn’t ask me to put your treatment on the record for a charge of assault and battery.” 

“Uh…didn’t even occur to me to press charges? Think I deserved more’n a slap, honestly,” the black-and-white said, making it a question.

Wheelack looked around the group. They continued looking confused, so he explained, “It’s not about what you deserved. Prowl turned a one-sided case of unprofessional behavior from another division’s Head into a mutual case of equal violations. He could have used what you did against you, but instead he canceled it out.” 

They stared at him, processing that.

“Strategist,” Smokescreen summed up. “That mech is scary-smart.”

Jazz’s fans clicked on.

 

**[* * * * *]**

 

_[ **A/N:** Credit to Vintage-Mechanics for mentioning motorboating. Until the curtain rises next time, m’dears.]_


	4. Pt. 4

**Title:** Third Wheel  
 **Warning:** This inhabits a weird area where it’s a humor fic, but people sensitive to misunderstandings causing serious discomfort probably shouldn’t read.  
 **Rating:** PG  
 **Continuity:** G1  
 **Characters:** Smokescreen, Jazz, Prowl, Mirage.  
 **Disclaimer:** The theatre doesn’t own the script or actors, nor does it make a profit from the play.  
 **Motivation (Prompt):** People on Tumblr were talking about ‘bots dribbling on themselves while fantasizing about voluptuous bumpers. It had to be written.

**[* * * * *]**  
 **Part Four**   
**[* * * * *]**

 

He knew horror. He knew the taste of it, the feel of it against his lips, the texture of it across his tongue, and his smile informed every watching optic how he savored every last bit. 

He exhaled it, intakes interrupting the flow of air in his throat to distort his voice into something heard in nightmares, and his mouth shaped it into the last words condemned mechs heard before they died. “Kill them,” said the terror he played, engine growling in erratic revs. 

It was a sound straight from alleyways in the bad side of cities long destroyed. The sudden _noise_ was a weapon, another form of the horror he was sculpting in their midst. Before, he’d glided among the prisoners on unnaturally steathly feet, his fans nothing but a silent waft of air as he moved past, but now he gave their horror life. It breathed through him with the unhealthy coughing rattle of an Empty threatening to eat them alive, and they flinched away from the horror he crafted in their minds.

He smiled, and their hands trembled where they were tucked behind necks, held up in the air. Surrendered, Decepticons hoped to live. They’d surrendered for the chance at mercy, rolling the dice to gamble at safety. They’d staked their lives on surrender, on making it alive to an Autobot P.O.W. camp. They prayed now, optics and visors white around the inside of strained-wide frames as horror breathed down the backs of their necks and spoke the command for execution. They prayed for the mercy of being deemed prisoners. 

It’d be more efficient to execute them here, claim they fought to the last mech, recycle their bodies, and disappear them as if they’d never existed. They knew what could be done to them if they weren’t taken prisoner, and they knew he knew. He knew the horror. He’d found it hiding in the depths of their secrets, familiarized himself to it, and become it as if it’d never been anyone else. He’d brought it out into reality and loosed it upon them. A darkness of spark had slithered into their base years ago, whispered secondhand accounts into their audios months ago, manufactured rumors weeks ago, sabotaged their defenses days ago, assassinated the base commander yesterday, and waltzed through the front gate this morning.

He’d personalized their fear until he personified it, until their terror belonged to no one but him. He’d turned his notority into a knife, and the edge had nestled under their chins, digging a little deeper with every piece of gossip exchanged by already scared mechs. Now it poised ready to slice, his hand steady and his visor unreadable.

They knew what he was capable of. His smile cut them, and they bled fear. They looked into his visor and saw a fate worse than death. If they ran, his smile promised, they wouldn’t escape. The horror he embodied would simply be released from restraint to chase every last one of them down, and they wouldn’t be captured. No, they’d be dragged further away from the meager protection of official sanction, out into the wastelands where no one would hear them, find them, help them. Freed from supervision, whatever torture he conjured would happen outside of the relatively civil bounds of war, prolonged and messy and painful, for no more reason than pleasure in their suffering. 

Right here and now, the quivering wisp of hope cowering in their sparks depended on the other Autobots defending them. The Autobots, they desperately hoped, would protect them. They bunched together, seeking safety in numbers from what lurked on the borders of their minds, circled their group. He’d walked through the gates into their base today, but he’d been hunting them from just out of sight for far, far longer than that. Horror had been hounding them for so long they couldn’t remember life before its arrival.

It had herded them in from the surrounding area, driven them into their base, cut them off from contact with the rest of the quadrant, and they’d had no options, none at all. Nothing but the terror scratching at their walls. Their dead commander had been proof that the walls didn’t keep it out. The walls were a pen conveniently holding them in one place for the slaughter, and there was nowhere to run, no way to fight. 

Then there’d been a tiny hint of a way out. An offhand mention by someone heard by someone else, maybe a friend or unitmate, who’d overhead what had happened at another base, a different outpost, a place Decepticon High Command had put a blackout over because the rest of the faction wasn’t supposed to know what happened. They weren’t supposed to discuss it, even talk in undertones, but someone had heard that someone had said they had a friend in another unit who’d lived. Who’d been _spared_. The horror couldn’t kill everyone, right? There had to have been witnesses to the horror as it passed them by, and those witnesses had to have done something right, something to save their own lives. If they did it, if they gave in, they might be spared.

It was a small chance, but it was a chance. Rumor said they _might_ live, if they gave up, but they would _certainly_ die if they didn’t. 

The Decepticons very badly wanted to live.

It’d taken courage to face the building horror head-on like this, acting contrary to their instincts. To prevent the danger waiting on the horizon from destroying them, they’d invited it in. They couldn’t attack, and their defenses were useless, so they’d opened the gates, laid down their weapons, and knelt in poses of defeat. For fear of what awaited if they didn’t, they did. They flung themselves at the mercy of a faction they derided, hated, had fought against, but desperately hoped would accept their unconditional, utmost surrender. 

They’d voluntarily put themselves under the horror’s claws. Now they knelt stock-still as it revved heavily in their audios. In person, the descriptions have done no justice to the horror the Decepticons had invited into their secure base. Death was a fear prickling teeth on the vulnerable cords of their throats and the inside of their forearms where the armor was thin, the cables were vital, and wiring could be ripped out by the handful before they could fight back. 

Primus, what fools they’d been to think surrender was enough. Primus, spare their sparks.

“Kill them,” he crooned in a smooth voice wrecked to a rasping croak, and in the back of his throat was the sound of glass breaking. Cordite smoked from the corners of his mouth, and a trickle of inner energon stained his lower lip as if he’d filled tanks from his last victims, fuel for the monster his reputation struggled to encompass. 

Oh, yes. Jazz knew horror. He knew the sound, the scent, the taste of it, and no matter what disguise it wore, the Decepticons recognized it when he stared at them. None of them could meet his gaze. Heads bowed, the prisoners shook and shivered, staring fixedly at the ground beneath their knees as they waited for judgment.

Only one person dared cross the notorious Head of Autobot Special Operation. Prowl parried the vicious glee in his gaze aside with an unimpressed look of cool detachment. Twilight blue and level cerulean clashed, all but sparking where blade-narrow visor met the blunt shield of authority. The beast loomed hulking and huge in Jazz’s shadow, snarling breath a cloud of hysterical imaginings panted into the back of every prisoner’s mind and engine howling defiant hunger for their very sparks, but Prowl’s optics flicked dismissal. 

“They have surrendered,” he countered. Folding his hands behind himself, standing at ease, he raised his chin to look impassively down his nose at the Deceptions kneeling at his feet. “Optimus Prime does not condone the execution of prisoners.”

“Tch.” However reluctant, Jazz subsided at Prowl’s command. 

Shoulders slumped with relief throughout the courtyard, one or two mechs sobbing abrupt gasps as terror-paralyzed ventilation systems kicked back online. Shaking violently, a few of them doubled over, unable to stay upright as their internal parts seized up, cramping in clicking waves that made them groan through gritted teeth. They struggled to keep their hands up, in sight, not a threat, not a _threat_. They wouldn’t risk losing the shelter of the Prime’s pardon, not while silent feet stalked the prisoners once more, circling around the perimeter of the motley assembly gathered in the courtyard of what had been a secure base. The black-and-white nightmare seemed moderately disgruntled. He eyed them, eager to leap in at the least sign of rebellion, but they were prisoners, voluntarily surrendered, and they were _happy_ to be. 

The Decepticons stared at the calm mech standing between them and the horror, and panic left something close to worship in the hollow space where it’d writhed inside them. The Praxian reflected in a hundred mostly-red optics glowed a savior, their savior, a glorious hope. Hardened warriors stuttered undignified thanks sotto voice as the Autobots moved among the kneeling ranks, closing stasis cuffs around offered wrists and rounding up prisoners glad to be leaving. They were so glad. 

Ironhide barked a gruff command, “C’mon, up and at ‘em.” 

Rough prodding brought the prisoners to their feet. The cuffs pulled, and they shuffled into a kind of order under watchful optics. The Autobots kept their rifles at the ready, but Ironhide turned his back on the line of chained mechs to stride for the door to the base proper. He’d stay here to entrench the Autobots in their newest conquest. The prisoners would leave. They’d have the ‘Cons locked away in a prepared P.O.W. camp before Decepticon High Command even knew the Autobots had taken control of the entire quadrant from this base. 

Moving the prisoner convoy immediately to a different location took advantage of the Decepticons’ sheer relief and gratitude in more than one way. “Smokes! Head ‘em up, take ‘em out,” Ironhide called across the courtyard like an afterthought, but it effectively turned everyone’s attention on the Praxian stepping out of the gateway.

“Yes, sir.” Smokescreen braced as every helm turned. He could _see_ them take in his frametype, a subliminal link forging in the space of a snapping synapse. “Am I going to have any trouble?” he asked, rhetorical but stern, and he kept his optics narrow as he swept them down the line.

Heads shook on automatic. 

“Transferred obedience,” the empty air beside him murmured. “Very nicely done. You won’t have a problem with this group. Just in case, I’ll be the voice at the edge of hearing telling them what will happen if they fall out of favor with their dear warden.”

Smokescreen looked right through Mirage as he turned to walk out the gate to lead the convoy, waiting to reply until he faced away from the prisoners. “I’d rather play it safe. This is the biggest group we’ve taken in one bunch.” He raised his hand, two fingers pointed forward, and the guards shouted commands to move. “There’s the turn at the pass, back against the cliff by the rust erosion channel. How fast can Hound and Jazz get there and stage an ‘example’ of a runaway?”

There was an ominous pause, and a chill shuddered through Smokescreen’s doors. The invisible planter of rumors and seeds of fear chuckled dark and low. “Fast. Your ‘example’ is the base executive officer. We pulled him from the end of the line -- don’t look back.” The twitch as Smokescreen controlled a glance back became a considering gaze into the distance. “He’s currently spilling everything he knows to Prowl. We’ll shuttle him to a different camp after he’s been squeezed dry. Hound’s getting images of him for the hologram, so don’t look closely as you pass unless you want to feel sick the rest of the walk. It’s going to be **detailed**.”

The prisoners were going to suffer nightmares. Good. Smokescreen was all in favor of enhancing Jazz’s reputation if it kept the P.O.W. camp fear-quiet. “When should I notice he’s missing?”

“Do a headcount at the crossroad to the pass. Frown a lot, look disappointed. Make a short speech about regrettable consequences for poor behavior.”

Smokescreen wondered how many of those consequences were real. He hoped he’d never find out. “I’ll make sure to add something about how my authority only applies to those in the cuffs. Anyone loose is on their own.”

“Oh, please do. Jazz will handle it from there.” Mirage’s footsteps were so light they didn’t leave a single mark on the road beside Smokescreen. Unlike Jazz, who’d start at the base and make certain the prisoners heard him coming. The hardest part of the trip would probably be prying Decepticons out of the guards’ wheelwells after Jazz cruised by on the hunt. “They’ll be eating out of the palm of your hand by the time you make the pass, and clinging to your heels afterward,” Mirage said with some satisfaction. Another mission well-done for SpecOps.

“Bluestreak will love me for that.”

“They’ll love Bluestreak.”

Smokescreen sighed. “That they will.” Another Praxian savior. First Prowl to save the poor Decepticons from horror, then Smokescreen to guide them through terror, and finally, amiable, chatterbox Bluestreak to protect them from what went bump in the night. 

And there was indeed noise, usually at night. Jazz took tours of the camps, an occasional, unpredictable visitor glimpsed at twilight, absolutely silent until an engine snarled outside the doors of the prisoner barracks, a faint scream shrilled somewhere in the distance. Tales of tire tracks and drag marks through the camp grew scarier every time Mirage repeated the rumor, an invisible ghost passing whispers of suddenly missing troublemakers the same way he’d left his horror stories in the audios of the Decepticons safe in their base. The same way he’d slip from prisoner to prisoner down the line soon, telling them in a voice just barely on the edge of hearing that the only thing keeping them safe was Smokescreen. If Smokescreen didn’t protect them, if Prowl hadn’t saved them, if Bluestreak didn’t like them, well. Then they belonged to Jazz.

Only Primus could save a Decepticon once the Praxians consigned him to the waiting horror. 

Mirage was really good at his job. Smokescreen hardly ever had a problem escorting prisoner convoys, and Bluestreak was probably the most beloved prison warden of all time.

Bluestreak: so innocent and naïve, so understanding, so kind and forgiving of errors, but able to put a bullet through an escaped prisoner every time. The survivors, like those that survived Jazz, told new prisoners at the camp that it was better not to wake the sniper behind the chatterbox’s friendly smile. The rules of the camp existed to keep them under control, but also to keep them alive. If something happened -- and something inevitably did, because there was always one idiot who thought himself the exception -- the stupid, unlucky fragger attempting to escape should fling himself down and surrender before the sharpshooter took a second shot. He never missed.

And pray he bothered getting his rifle out. Anybody allowed to run didn’t make it very far, rumor said, and there were those screams at night…

“I can’t help but feel that we’re being used for our bodies,” Smokescreen said, and a muffled engine choked on laughter beside him. 

“You are,” Mirage said in the high voice that said he was repressing giggles. “Jazz is using you. Ironhide is using you. Prowl is using you.” He paused. “That’s hot.”

“I’ll tell Sunstreaker you said so.”

“And he’ll agree. How’s that going, by the way?”

Smokescreen narrowed his optics, glowering sidelong at his nosy friend. Or where he thought Mirage’s voice was coming from, anyway. “Don’t you have Decepticons to scare?” 

“Give them time to settle into a rhythm. I don’t want to be caught stepping out of time.” Understandable. The discordant chime and chink of a chain gang on the move would gradually synchronize as the prisoners matched steps, and Mirage could easily cover his whisper campaign under the regular background noise after they adjusted to hearing it. 

Smokescreen scanned both sides of the road and declined to answer the question. He didn’t kiss and tell.

Aristocratic manners to the rescue! Mirage gracious changed the subject. “According to Bumblebee, you’ve been claimed as a part of Medical. Are you officially a relationship counselor?” 

See, this he could talk about for days. “I think Ambulon just got fed up with Strategic Planning and Special Operations having budget wars over who claims me every quarter and decided to use the ‘pressing need’ excuse to recruit me. Ironhide signed off on it before Prowl or Jazz even got the memo.” He rubbed his chevron wearily. “It’s ridiculous. Ambulon reclassified Wheeljack as a nurse to get Medical a bigger share of Engineering’s budget and nobody put up a fuss, but he classifies me as part of Medical and Jazz loses his slag. He locked me in a closet!”

“Quieter,” Mirage warned. “A closet? Really. Bumblebee didn’t tell me that part. I’ve been away from the base too long,” he hummed thoughtfully. “Has he moved on to actually using you for your body, then?”

Smokescreen smothered a scoff. “Him? I’d like to see him try. He hasn’t got the gears.” 

There was a long moment of silence.

He peered sidelong, suspicious. “What?”

“I am reflecting,” Mirage said in that high, amused voice, “on the oddity of you saying that while heading a prisoner convoy composed of Decepticons I cannot imagine are capable of thinking of Jazz in that light.”

They’d be amazed by what Jazz failed at, off the job. “He’s never attacked them with a tray.”

“You’re never going to forgive him that, are you?” 

“Nope. Not gonna forgive him the closet, either.”

“You must have gotten out. Why did he lock you in?” Mirage breezed behind Smokescreen to avoid a dusty patch on the road. He made less noise than a ghost, and nobody in the convoy noticed a thing.

The Praxian’s doors lowered a fraction in peevish irritation. “According to the explanation -- which I only got later, mind you -- reclassifying me as any form of therapist means I’ll be transferred to a base with a certified headshrink to undergo an evaluation. You know how Command works. I’m not likely to get transferred back once I’m gone.”

A mildly appalled silence filled the empty air. “I…see.”

Spelling it out didn’t excuse Jazz’s overreaction, but it explained it. Smokescreen huffed. “He panicked.”

“Yes, I’m certain he did.”

“I’ve been trying to **help** him, not make him dependent on me!”

An invisible hand patted Smokescreen on the shoulder. “I doubt it’s dependency as much as superstition at this point. He sees you as a good luck charm.”

“And optic-candy,” Smokescreen grumbled.

“There is that.” 

If he’d been visible, the slender blue spy would have been far more discreet about the appreciative stare Smokescreen could all but feel lingering on his chest. It was enough to make him wonder how often Mirage watched him in the washracks. Good thing he wasn’t shy.

“Anyway,” he said, refusing to cover his bumper, “I’m not officially part of Medical. I’m on the budget, yeah, but that fragger talked Ironhide into making me an ‘auxiliary interrogator.’ Part of SpecOps. I’m ‘allowed’ to stay on-base for training in both specialties. Specialties I don’t even have!”

“Well, you **have** helped Jazz progress further than he could have on his own,” Mirage said slowly.

“That’s not saying much.”

“True. And you were involved in breaking Needlenose.”

Smokescreen had to cover a hitch in his step. The urge to stop and glare was strong. “That doesn’t count as interrogation! All I said was that he’d probably sell a passcode for a formal conjunx ceremony. Anybody who’s stood guard over him and Horri-Bull at the same time would know that.”

“’Anybody’ wouldn’t set up the ceremony.”

“So I pulled in a few favors. Big deal. I like planning weddings.”

“A wedding the Prime just happened to arrive in the middle of.”

“Look, I know a guy who knows a guy, that’s all. Optimus was in the right area at the right time.” He repressed a careless shrug. “He likes weddings, what can I say?”

He could _feel_ Mirage giving him a sardonic look. “Needlenose babbled passcodes as if we’d strung him up in a variable voltage harness for days, and all it required was the organization and implementation of a formal civil ceremony attended by the religious and military leader of the opposing faction, who acted as magistrate for the change of conjunx status between two captured enemy soldiers. That’s all you had to do. You only had to set up a wedding and ask the only officer high enough in the Autobots that even the Decepticons legally recognize unions he officiates to drop by and put his seal on the ceremony.”

“Well, I mean, yeah.” He stopped himself before he said, _’Anybody could do it.’_ He wasn’t about to explain his connection to Optimus Prime. “You didn’t get **that** much from him.”

“He told us every passcode he knew for one of Shockwave’s laboratories.”

“It was a small lab.”

“We broke sixty Autobots out of the cells. He’d been experimenting on them for weeks.”

“It was only the once,” Smokescreen said, a little feebly.

“Really. Then explain Astrotrain and Blitzwing.”

“Oh come on!”

“Shhhh.”

“That,” Smokescreen hurriedly lowered his voice, “that totally doesn’t count. ‘Shuttle before scuttle’ is a common saying!”

“One that I, for one, had never heard before, nor realized it apparently meant one would pass on gossip if we threatened the other.”

“It’s just gossip. How useful is gossip, am I right?”

Mirage allowed a moment of silence fill in the answer to that rhetorical question. The prisoners in the convoy behind them were terrified, due to gossip. Jazz had a reputation that could crush entire bases, due to gossip. Gossip did more to damage morale than a landmine, if seeded right.

Smokescreen grumbled, “Those two were obviously close friends trying to hide it. Don’t tell me nobody else picked up on that.”

Mirage politely didn’t tell him, saying instead, “Cliffjumper and myself?”

“You two were on a collision course and you know it.”

“Wheeljack and Warpath.”

“I’m still amazed none of the rest of you saw that coming.” Exasperation dripped from Smokescreen’s voice. “Boom? Bang? Those two were **made** to clang.”

“You’ve made up your mind about this, haven’t you?”

“Jazz just wants me to stay at the outpost, and Ambulon wants everyone else to shut up about who gets me.”

“I think there’s rather more to it than that.”

“Lies. Baseless slander.”

“Pardon me? It’s no such thing.”

They argued halfway to the prison camp.

 

**[* * * * *]**

_[ **A/N:** Shibara drew Wheeljack/Warpath, inspired by this fic. XD http://shibara.tumblr.com/post/136933732219/third-and-last-doodle-of-the-night-wheeljack-and .]_


	5. Pt. 5

**Title:** Third Wheel  
 **Warning:** This inhabits a weird area where it’s a humor fic, but people sensitive to misunderstandings causing serious discomfort probably shouldn’t read.  
 **Rating:** PG  
 **Continuity:** G1  
 **Characters:** Smokescreen, Prowl, Sideswipe, Sunstreaker, Wheeljack, Jazz.  
 **Disclaimer:** The theatre doesn’t own the script or actors, nor does it make a profit from the play.  
 **Motivation (Prompt):** People on Tumblr were talking about ‘bots dribbling on themselves while fantasizing about voluptuous bumpers. It had to be written.

**[* * * * *]**   
**Part Five**   
**[* * * * *]**

 

“You describe them in predatory terms.” Prowl seemed unconcerned to inexperienced optics, but Smokescreen had the doors, too. They were held at a tenser angle than a mere tactical exercise warranted.

Smokescreen leaned his elbow on the table, flashing a winning smile through the hologram projector. “They **are** waiting to pounce you, sir. All you need do is a curl a finger, and they’d race each other to your room.” Magic: the interface summoning. 

Prowl’s chin tilted down to shadow his optics under his chevron. “My bunk is in the officer quarters.”

“Yeah, so? You’d have an audience. Pretty sure they’d be willing to do any other officer around at the time, just to stay and watch whatever lucky fragger you choose get laid.” Not an uncommon thing in the open quarters most soldiers lived in. Smokescreen himself shared a bunk with one or two mechs per night, depending on the shift, and they didn’t bother drawing the privacy curtain most nights. The barracks were no place for the shy. 

Squinting into the projected battlefield, he tapped a key next to his elbow. “Front line to the east needs support.”

“It will hold.” The shadows under Prowl’s chevron looked slightly disturbed. “I’ve seen no proof of the level of attraction you insist is present.” 

“No offense or anything, sir,” Smokescreen said as he dragged enemy forces in to test that vulnerable line, “but you get so caught up in your work we could stage a parade in your honor and you wouldn’t notice.” Actually, that sounded kind of familiar. It wouldn’t surprise him if the outpost had tried that route before. “You ever see those dents in the hallway walls?”

“Pardon me? Dents?” Blue optics came back into view as Prowl lifted his head to blink at the Praxian across the table. “What dents?”

“Exactly.” No, he wasn’t going to explain. Since Prowl obviously didn’t believe Smokescreen was telling the truth half the time, it was better to let him find these things out for himself. The TacHead, Smokescreen had discovered through trial and error, had a healthy sense of curiosity. Once roused, he tended to fall back into the habits of an investigator. 

The long term strategy of Operation: Not A Joke depended on Prowl poking around on his own. Smokescreen stuck to handing him strange-but-true little details to puzzle over, mostly involving how Outpost 49-B6-4 wanted his shiny bumper, and then standing out of his way as he investigated. Prowl was observational enough, just rather single-minded while on the job. He’s sole reason for traveling to the outpost was operations management, and he spent his time there completely focused on the missions. He tuned out anything unrelated to work. 

Since Smokescreen’s operation had gone into effect, Prowl had started, very tentatively, looking around at the people around him. It’d resulted in such incidents as the prank call to Megatron and Jazz breaking his own rear axle falling off the perimeter wall -- “No regrets,” was all Jazz had to say about how or why that had happened -- but progress was incremental. For every confirmation of Smokescreen’s tall tales Prowl found, he also found people behaving in wild, unmanageable ways he couldn’t predict, approve of, or even find hard evidence of when he took a second look. Once caught, the flustered Autobots of Outpost 49-B6-4 were properly ashamed of themselves and scrambled not to get caught a second time.

Smokescreen had hammered manners into their hard heads eventually. He’d never regretted it more than when he showed up at these meetings with Prowl and had to explain there was a reason the poor mech never saw the same results of a test twice. It wasn’t a figment of Prowl’s imagination. It wasn’t wishful thinking, although Smokescreen kept asking, as there was a SpecOps mech back at the outpost desperately hoping Prowl wished for him. It wasn’t even the people of the outpost intentionally messing up Prowl’s fact-finding mission. The fact that Prowl had only caught one person ogling him didn’t mean that they didn’t all stare, it simply meant they were being more discreet.

Prowl didn’t believe it. Results that couldn’t be replicated were faulty results.

In other words, Smokescreen was telling the truth, the whole truth, and nothing but the truth, but Prowl’s inbuilt tactical suite _refused to believe it._

It was the most annoying fact-based long-term analysis Smokescreen had ever been a part of. But he still showed up every other week to be part of it. Sure, Prowl called it a tactical exercise, and they were indeed moving troop markers around the holographic battlefield in dead-serious attempts to punch holes through each other’s sides, but most of Smokescreen’s limited tactical training went into judging how much information to dole out to the Head of Strategic Planning this time.

A disgruntled mutter came from Prowl’s side of the board. He clearly felt he hadn’t been given enough information. Good. A curious Prowl was a Prowl likely to catch Trailbreaker walking into a wall next time. 

Smokescreen pretended not to hear Prowl’s grumbling. Blue optics glared through the projection, and intense reshuffling of the markers occurred. Smokescreen’s forces were about to be creamed in short order by a vindictive planner out for vital fluids, but that was fine. His job here was done for the day.

“Where do you fit in to this so-called ‘obsession’ you claim they have for me?” Prowl asked suddenly, optics still on the board.

Smokescreen sat back and shrugged his doors. “Frametype. You and I look enough alike Ironhide told me I could have my pick of the ranks, and he was right.”

This time, Prowl looked up. Confusion crossed his face. “You are amendable to being used as a replacement?”

“Uh.” Well, that was putting it bluntly. Doors lowering a bit, Smokescreen crossed his arms in uncomfortable thought. “I’m not really a replacement, I’d say…”

“You have said in the past that Lieutenant Jazz stares at your chest as well.”

“Yeah?”

Prowl’s hands rested flat on the console keys as he cocked his head to the side. “And that you aid him in practicing conversational skills.”

“Sure.” This was progress of a sort, although Smokescreen felt more unease than triumph at the moment. Last time, Prowl hadn’t believed a thing he said about Jazz’s unintentional idiocy in the TacHead’s presence. 

The confusion on Prowl’s face deepened to a thoughtful concern. “Doesn’t it stand to reason that if the others of the outpost want me as much as you say, they are also using you as a replacement for me? It seems callous to use you with the intent to discard you should I become available.”

Speechless, Smokescreen stared at him.

That…that wasn’t…

That wasn’t anything new, per se. He’d known exactly that. It’d been in the back of his head, a vague awareness that sooner or later he wouldn’t be able to deny reality, but it wasn’t as though any of this was serious. He and Jazz were friends. The majority of the outpost loved the look of him and would probably frag him in a split second, but a large chunk of the ranks would hop into anybody’s bunk, given the chance. Companionable interfacing filled the downtime between battles, staving off boredom just as well as a card game. Every Autobot knew every Autobot in the outposts like that. 

Sure, they loved Smokescreen’s body because he looked like Prowl. He knew it, but it wasn’t that big of a deal because none of the flirting or interfacing really _meant_ anything.

Except for the slight, niggling problem of maybe it did in a couple cases.

What Prowl said pinged around inside his head the whole drive back to the outpost, part of the usual resupply convoy. Smokescreen transformed inside the front gate frowning. The guys on guard duty waved to the sentries, and nobody was surprised when one bright red mech jumped the last flight of stairs, tucked and rolled, and came up grinning to greet the Praxian. It was technically against the rules to leave the wall, but Sideswipe was something of a maverick. Besides, tradition was tradition.

“How’d it go?” he said. Hands out, he confidently swaggered forward to lean in, gather Smokescreen into his arms, and collect a kiss.

A kiss Smokescreen didn’t return.

“Huh? Smokes?” Without letting him go, the red frontliner backed off enough to look down at him. “You okay? What happened?” He glanced at the rest of the convoy, but there wasn’t any evidence of a fight. Nobody was giving him meaningful looks saying he’d forgotten something important and was in trouble for being a deadbeat sack of slag. Which didn’t mean he hadn’t screwed up somehow, however, and grins lit up along the wall as Smokescreen stood stiff in his arms. Sheesh, forget one anniversary and a mech’s rep was made.

“Sideswipe,” Smokescreen began slowly, and the normally fearless warrior braced for an explosion, an expression of dread splayed across his face, “if you were given the choice of dating me or Prowl, who would you choose?”

Everyone froze. _Everyone_. Ironhide had just come out to meet the convoy leader, but he stopped dead in his tracks. Hound stopped in mid-transformation, trailer hitch still hooked to the supply load. Warpath almost took a header down the steps stopping with his foot in the air.

Sideswipe looked pole-axed. The whole outpost silently urged him to speak, speak _now_ , but he stood dumbstruck, caught flat-footed.

Smokescreen continued looking up at him, abnormally quiet and patient. 

He finally fumbled out an answer under the pressure of that narrow stare. “I, uh, I guess, who wouldn’t take Pro -- you! I meant you! Primus, joke, it was a **joke** , Smokes! Smokescreen!” The glare the Praxian gave his reaching hands threatened to cut them off at the wrist. Sideswipe did a complicated maneuver where he recoiled and attempted to chase at the same time. “Bad timing! C’mon, don’t be like that!”

“You **tool**!” someone yelled from the wall. Disgusted, someone else chucked a nut at his head. 

Ironhide stood like a wall between the angry, hurt pair of doors fleeing through the door and the wincing frontliner intent on following them. “Where’re ya think you’re going? You’re on duty.”

“But sir -- “

“Sentry duty. Now.” The outpost commander pointed up the stairs, all authority. “Keep that scrap off-duty where it belongs an’ get back to doin’ your job.”

Whatever Sideswipe tried to argue after that was cut off by the door closing. Hands closed so tight into fists his arms shook, Smokescreen stormed down the hall. Okay, now he knew how Prowl felt. Being turned into a joke was no fun at all, and he didn’t feel inclined to give Sideswipe another chance to toy with his emotions. That comment had sliced a little too deep to take pulling it open at the moment.

So when he spotted Sunstreaker turning the corner up ahead, he was, perhaps, not in the right frame of mind for a confrontation. Not so soon, not right now, not unless the first thing out of the golden frontliner’s mouth was an abject apology for his twin’s stupidity.

“What’s your malfunction?” Sunstreaker demanded as soon as he was in range.

Nope. No apology. That was a pissed-off, self-righteous defense of his twin, as if Smokescreen had no right to be offended, and Smokescreen bristled, every combat protocol he had spinning up to full alert. Even if he was simply overreacting to Sunstreaker’s usual approach to relationship communication, he had exactly zero frags left to give for thinking about his tank-deep reaction right this second.

He kept walking forward until he was up in Sunstreaker’s face, chin raised to aggressively snarl up at the taller mech, “We’re through. Go chase Prowl’s taillights if you want him that bad, ‘cause we’re done. This is me,” he jerked both thumbs at his chest, “and you,” both forefingers pointed at the enraged frontliner in front of him, “breaking up.” And he put up both hands in a familiar obscene gesture telling Sunstreaker to screw off better than any words he could think up on the spot.

Under normal circumstances, Smokescreen was a fairly good negotiator, especially between people in a strained relationship. 

These were not normal circumstances. He smiled up at Sunstreaker and added an extra demonstrative twist to the gesture. 

“Welcome back to the land of the conscious,” Wheeljack greeted him not long afterward.

“I don’t like it here,” Smokescreen said fuzzily. “Deport me.” He squinted his optics against the cheerful blinking light of Wheeljack’s audio indicators. “Ow.”

“’Ow’ is accurate. You lasted the grand total of thirty seconds against Sunstreaker in a no-holds-barred brawl that you, all witnesses confirm, intentionally provoked,” Wheeljack reported in a helm-jarringly jovial voice. As if his voice wasn’t enough, the air compressor at his side chugged and emitted loud, piercing chirps every few seconds.

Smokescreen’s engine coughed a low warning sound. “Not my fault he hit me,” he grumbled. In retrospect, it’d been a bad idea. Knowing Sunstreaker’s flashpoint temper, getting into his personal space bubble and verbally kicking him between the diodes was a spectacularly stupid move. The mech had been known to throw a punch at _officers_ for less provocation.

“Oh, I know.” The air compressor gave a last chirp as Wheeljack finished touching up Smokescreen’s paint. Sobering a bit, the nurse looked down at him with worried optics. “Ironhide’s slapped an inhibitor on him and demoted him to scutwork until he can get a court martial assembled, and he’s under confinement anytime he’s not on duty. Sideswipe’s up for the same.”

“What? Why?” Smokescreen paused partway through slowly sitting up. “I don’t remember him being there.”

Wheeljack’s indicators flickered a pale, flinching green. “Ah, yup. You were down and out before he arrived and decked Sunstreaker a good one. Ironhide’s charging him with dereliction of duty **and** assault, but Sideswipe’s defense is that he was defending you, and Sunstreaker’s backing him despite Red Alert saying it looked like he was actually picking you up to take you to medbay when Sideswipe crashed into him.”

Smokescreen worked his mouth, trying to find words. “Are they…are they okay?”

“Weeeeeeell,” Wheeljack drew out, “you planted a sweet optic-cracker on our ray of sunshine -- you really know where to hit to hurt him, don’t you -- and Sideswipe dented his other cheek, but Ironhide landed on them like eight tons of rebar before they did more than trade punches. Sideswipe took a nasty crack to his hood hitting Sunstreaker in altmode like that, but neither of them needed more than first aid. We sent patches down for them. Now, you.” He gave his patient a penetrating look like he could peel open that fool head and see inside. “What in the zap-pow-kablooey was that all about?”

Setting Wheeljack and Warpath up was coming back to bite him. “It’s personal,” he grunted, working his way off the slab.

“Frag no, I heard about that scene with Sideswipe. That was public,” Wheeljack argued. He provided a helpful hand to hoist him back to his feet, which Smokescreen accepted gratefully. Frag, Sunstreaker hit like a piledriver. “Why’re you comparing yourself to Prowl? Those two wouldn’t date Prowl.”

“Because Prowl wouldn’t date them, not because they don’t want to,” Smokescreen said sourly. He straightened up and wobbled a step. Okay, good. Balance was decent. “Wheeljack, just -- don’t. I don’t want to talk about it.”

“You don’t want to, but you probably should.”

“I **don’t** want to talk about it,” he repeated, adding emphasis as he shot a glare toward his friend.

Who put his hands up in surrender. “Okay, okay. You know where to find me when you’re ready.”

“Yeah, I do. Thanks.” Grudging as it came out, he really did appreciate the offer. 

“Knock knock!” sang from the medbay door, and any lighter emotions fled in an onslaught of reminders of what this was all about. Jazz hesitated at the look on Smokescreen’s face. “Should I come back later?”

“Yes,” Wheeljack said the same time Smokescreen asked, “Is this official business?” He’d have to give a statement for the court martial at some point, he knew, but he suspected Jazz wasn’t here for that.

Jazz’s habitual smile quirked into a wry expression. “Not **official** , buuuuuuut,” he meandered closer in pseudo-casual sidling up to the issue and Praxian alike, “I was kinda hopin’ you’d clue me int’ what’s got Angst and Angstier down in the lock-up blamin’ each other for everything up to an’ includin’ Megatron.”

Smokescreen deleted all emotion from his face. “I don’t want to talk about it.”

“Smokes, work with me. I’ve seen Red’s tapes. You got rust up your pipe over somethin’ -- “

“ **I don’t want to talk about it.** ”

Jazz stared at him, visor wide. Even Wheeljack gave him a surprised look for the ragged shout.

“Smokescreen,” the Head of Special Ops said, dropping the buddy-‘bot act to be the dangerous mech under the smooth attitude, “do I gotta add more charges to th’ pile?”

The suggestion made Smokescreen’s tanks curdle, but he was beyond reasonable discussion by now. He felt pushed and pushed, and all he wanted, the _only_ thing he needed, was to be _left alone_. “I said,” he snarled, throwing his shoulders back, chest outthrust, “I don’t want to talk about it.”

His hood popped. 

Jazz’s jaw dropped, visor the palest of pale blues, and Wheeljack leapt forward as something in the black-and-white audibly fried in a crackling _’fzzzzzt!’_

That was that. Smokescreen stormed out of the medbay, furiously self-satisfied. 

Behind him, he heard Wheeljack chide, “He did say he didn’t want to talk about it.”

 

**[* * * * *]**


	6. Pt. 6

**Title:** Third Wheel  
 **Warning:** This inhabits a weird area where it’s a humor fic, but people sensitive to misunderstandings causing serious discomfort probably shouldn’t read.  
 **Rating:** PG  
 **Continuity:** G1  
 **Characters:** Smokescreen, Prowl.  
 **Disclaimer:** The theatre doesn’t own the script or actors, nor does it make a profit from the play.  
 **Motivation (Prompt):** People on Tumblr were talking about ‘bots dribbling on themselves while fantasizing about voluptuous bumpers. It had to be written.

**[* * * * *]**  
 **Part Six**   
**[* * * * *]**

 

“Sooo,” Sideswipe started as he sat down on the other side of the table.

Doors tensed.

“No,” Sunstreaker finished without pause as he slid in beside his twin, pushing him along with his hip. The two of them slid smoothly off the end of the bench and continued on their way across the messhall with barely a hitch to show they’d stopped at all. 

They cast wary glances back at the black-and-white coming up the aisle between tables after them, but Jazz had his own stop to make. He smiled at the table’s sole occupant. “Hey there, how’s it -- “

“I will,” Smokescreen said in a grim tone underscored by his transmission grinding gears, “lick my own hood.”

Visor pale, Jazz stopped halfway to sitting down on the bench. “Can you…can you **do** that?”

“Do you really want to find out?”

Swallowing hard, Jazz dropped his gaze to stare at Smokescreen’s voluptuous chest. It was as magnificent as always. From the gradual widening of his visor, it was quite clear Jazz’s filthy hindbrain was painting a loving picture of just what it would look like for someone of the Praxian frametype to lick his own headlight. Did he want to find out if it was possible? 

“Not like this,” he said, but a tiny tremor shook his otherwise calm voice. Yes, yes indeed he did, no matter what he protested. His engine revved. His doors twitched convulsively, far out of his control, and his hands drew into fists. His smile crumbled around the edges as he looked at the bench, at Smokescreen, and then at the messhall in general as if looking for help. None was forthcoming. 

He slid his leg slowly out from under the table to stand back up. “Why you gotta be like that, mech?” he complained a tad plaintively.

Smokescreen dipped his chin to eye his hood.

Both of Jazz’s hands went up in surrender, and the black-and-white hastily scooted. “Alright, alright, I give!” He jogged after the two frontliners he was supposed to be escorting. They weren’t allowed out of confinement except for their shifts, or under escort. As far as Smokescreen was concerned, putting them under Jazz’s supervision simply tossed all the bad diodes into one basket.

A minute later, Bumblebee climbed over the bench and plonked himself opposite Smokescreen. His arrival earned a bad-tempered look of much disfavor but no active protest. Smokescreen deigned to allow his presence. Given the table-wide quarantine zone etched out around the outpost’s resident Praxian, it was progress. He’d take it. Tolerance rated above growling, which was what the hostile ball of angry hurt otherwise known as Smokescreen had been doing at everyone for the past week. 

“You are **killing** our rep,” Bumblebee commented as he set down his tray. “You broke our two best frontliners’ sparks, have our boss on the run, and managed to destroy base morale pretty much by existing. Only thing left is to take away Ironhide’s guns, and you’ll have all of SpecOps beat.” He paused, but Smokescreen refused to take the bait. “All in one week, even. That’s got to be some kind of record. We’re going to have to up our game to keep up.”

Something clunked inside Smokescreen, like a snapped belt coming to a sudden, tangled halt, but Bumblebee’s optics fixed on the cracked cube leaking through the Praxian’s hands. Ration-grade energon dripped into the tiny bowls of frame-specific fuel additives arrayed on Smokescreen’s tray, causing a chain reaction of foaming, hissing, spitting substances bubbling out onto the table. 

That was…kind of a bad sign. The quartermaster doled those bowls out according careful measurements tailored to each soldier’s engine specifications, to be taken during meals. Soldiers who didn’t eat their additives regretted it soon after, as the medbay had Security on its side. Red Alert saw all things and then some. Ambulon always, always found out who wasn’t following directions. 

Wise Autobots followed medical advice. Unwise Autobots found a bristle-brush taken to their internal tubing during their next maintenance appointment. The intensive scrubbing usually came attached to a lecture on how ‘Autobots like them’ didn’t _appreciate_ good fuel mixtures, and _this_ was what he thought of ignorant grunts who thought they could make fools of authority figures, authority figures just trying to keep them in decent _shape_ , but what did he know? He was just the _medic_ responsible for their _health_. He didn’t know why he _bothered_. If they couldn’t follow simple _instructions_ on running _clean_ , then he didn’t _doubt_ they’d get their damnfool _helms_ blown off long before their _engines_ gave _out_. He was going to tell the quartermaster to give them all plain energon from now on, so help him Primus, he’d really do it this time. Let this blasted outpost full of ingrates and morons see how _long_ they’d _last_ fueling _forty different engines_ on the. Same. _Blend._

At that point in the lecture, most soldiers were scrubbed raw and whimpering promises to never, ever neglect taking their addictives again, yessir Ambulon sir, they’d follow his prescriptions to the letter and wash behind their fenders, just please please please stop shoving that brush up their pipes. 

Ambulon booted his victims out of the medbay, telling them to scram before he opened up their heads to tighten up the screws he _knew_ were loose in there, and patients scurried away happy to have survived his unique brand of healthcare. Popular theory around the outpost was that he browbeat his patients into submission because the Autobot Medical Division denied his requests to actually beat some common sense into them. They’d rather take a beating. Gaaaah.

So yeah. The growing mess on Smokescreen’s tray was a bad sign. Bumblebee decided teasing wasn’t the best course of action. Anybody who clearly didn’t give a scrap that he’d have an ex-‘Con medic railroading him later on wasn’t in the best frame of mind for friendly ribbing. 

The yellow minibot coughed into his hand and cast a meaningful look at the crowd of worried friends hovering behind Smokescreen. They scattered. 

Bumblebee put on a convincing smile. “Okay! In other news, we’re on patrol later. You want outer or inner track?”

Taking their cue from Bumblebee, everyone kept their distance. Now was not the time for offering comfort -- or getting caught admiring him. Smokescreen’s bubble of ire continued to boil, the air around him positively seething as he stewed in his own thoughts, but frag. That mech was _fine_ when he got his back up. It was like Prowl all over again. Upthrust doors quivered as he stalked the wall on sentry duty. Anger-pale optics smoldered from underneath an oddly sharp-seeming yellow chevron, and he crossed his arms as if to frame his hood whenever someone dared approach. 

Even Wheeljack couldn’t inch into the blast zone without a glare turned on him like a weapon. Smokescreen stayed tensed in constant readiness for a confrontation nobody wanted to start. They admired him from a distance, but nobody wanted to set off the explosion. The whole outpost expected one. They waited, increasingly uneasy, for the tension to break, but it didn’t. Worry became a terrible dread building up and up as Smokescreen brooded like a chemical reaction under pressure

Wheeljack was the outpost’s bomb expert, but he passed on triggering this particular explosion. He made his offers, trying to get through, trying to start converstions, letting the Praxian know his shoulder was there to lean on if or when he needed it, but Smokescreen bared his teeth in open threat.

Wheeljack knew how to duck and cover, and that’s exactly what he did. He got out of there before Smokescreen snapped. The mech looked one step from gnawing on the axle of the next person to ask him if he was _okay_. No, he was _not_ okay. He was most definitely not okay! Now stop asking, for Pit’s sake!

Of course, when the bomb squad took off running, smart mechs sprinted for the hills. The rest of the outpost stayed very far away from Smokescreen after that. It’s not that they didn’t want to do something, but they didn’t want to, well, die?

Ironhide, being Ironhide, seemed completely immune to the problem growing in the barracks, but his policy of ignoring interpersonal drama tended to work out more often than not. The grunts didn’t need him to hold their hands. If an officer had to intervene every time the ranks got their gears in a grind, they’d never get anything done. Better to ignore the tension. If it was a real problem, his subordinates would handle it before he ever had to get involved.

There was a certain stability to having a commander like Ironhide. 

Stable was not one of the descriptive terms typically applied to Jazz. Smokescreen had composed a long list of terms he could apply to Jazz, and Ironhide would probably be forced to intervene if he read them off, but Jazz didn’t push Smokescreen’s bad mood. He kept out of sight. 

Hound stopped beside Smokescreen on the wall. Resigned but amiable, he said, “Standard offer still in place.”

Blue optics narrowed to gleaming slits just daring Decepticons to attack. “Standard refusal still applies.” The twins’ messenger-‘bot shrugged, having expected nothing else, and Smokescreen added, “And before you ask, no, I don’t want to talk to him, either.”

“Well, alright, but I wish you would. Jazz hasn’t done anything. Has he?” Hound awkwardly leaned his elbows on the wall, looking out over the wartorn area around the outpost to avoid meeting Smokescreen’s outraged optics. Somebody had to say something. “It’s kinda turning into a big deal, Smokescreen. Nobody knows what’s up with you two right now. Jazz’s acting like you’re out for his wheels, and you’re kinda acting like it.” He risked a sidelong look at Smokescreen, but the Praxian looked away. Hound gave him a moment, hoping, but no comment. He looked back out. “Sunstreaker and Sideswipe, yeah, we get that. They gotta know you’re mad, and they know why, and no slag why, we all get that. Me, I’d transfer out to get away from them if I really wanted to end things, but that’s me.” 

Smokescreen’s hands curled against the wall. Nobody understood, and he didn’t know how to even begin explaining. Yeah, he’d started out angry at Sideswipe, but he’d calmed down. Sideswipe made bad jokes. It was what he did. He made off-color comments at the worst times. Smokescreen could have forgiven his rude poke straight in the insecurities, but it wasn’t just about treating their relationship like a joke. It wasn’t just about being a temporary Prowl-shaped substitute in their bunks and their lives.

Every instinct he had screamed against staying with Sideswipe and Sunstreaker. Things had evolved past the point where they lusted at him for his body and he returned the favor. It’d become more personal, and that was dangerous because getting attached to those two spelled bad news. 

He’d always known dating both of them wasn’t healthy, but it’d been okay when he was just getting his bolts torqued by two shiny, smelter-hot frontliners. Lust was easy. Lust didn’t make a balancing act out of his life, pushed and pulled in equal measure, invited in at the same time he was rejected. Anything more than lust meant he couldn’t simply drop them when it grew too difficult to juggle their issues, Sunstreaker’s self-centered vanity and Sideswipe’s rash, manic action. More than lust meant he felt something for them. It meant he needed them to feel more for him in return, and he knew, he already _knew_ , that they couldn’t do that.

They’d confessed to him, together and separate, that their attempts to date people one-on-one never seemed to work. Outside connections pulled them apart, changing them until they grated against each other. Those relationships hadn’t been disastrous, but unspoken in their tales was their fear of losing their fit. When they first asked Smokescreen for a date, all three of them had laid out clearly what they wanted from this sort of relationship, and it wasn’t love. Smokescreen didn’t want to commit to people who screamed someone else’s name in overload, and Sideswipe and Sunstreaker adamantly refused to let anyone coming between them.

They were twins, but it wasn’t some kind of effortless bond. Like any close relationship, it could easily warp into hate or indifference if they didn’t work at it. Love required commitment. It wasn’t powered by emotion alone. Emotions shifted. If they didn’t stick together, didn’t _try_ to stay as two halves of a whole, then one day they’d be different people, and those people might walk away from one another. They made a continuous effort to stay together, be close together, and they’d outright told Smokescreen that he’d never be as close to either of them as they were to each other. 

He didn’t want to be. He was the pair’s disposable third, and in that context, it’d be unhealthy to feel anything but lust for them. Friendship, maybe. They were good friends, excellent fragbuddies, and he didn’t want them to be anything more than that to him. 

What he’d felt when Sideswipe made his ill-timed joke wasn’t good, it wasn’t healthy, and that’s what scared him. That’s what had soured his mood and turned him into a defensive, angry bundle of hurt and anger. It wasn’t Jazz using him, it wasn’t Sideswipe’s lousy joke, it wasn’t even really Sunstreaker hitting him. Okay, so Sunstreaker hitting him wasn’t acceptable, but Smokescreen didn’t really mind the violence after everything was said and done. He’d taken too many hits in and out of battle to consider a punch out of line anymore. 

To be honest, he hadn’t been surprised when it happened. He’d expected Sunstreaker’s fist as much as Sideswipe’s smart remark, and while it should shock him how normal it felt, he mostly just felt resigned. 

Sunstreaker wasn’t quite right in the head, but neither was Sideswipe, and neither was Smokescreen. Nobody on Cybertron was okay anymore. People couldn’t endure thousands upon thousands of years of war without breaking around the edges. From what Smokescreen knew of the twins’ history, they had likely started out broken. The personalities had sharpened into jagged knives where other people smoothed in compromise, but there was a lot of difference between rough edges and a crack straight down the middle. They were cracked. They were two matched halves, unattached but so close they completed without joining. Sidewipe was verbose to Sunstreaker’s taciturn, a people-person instead of anti-social, so different they couldn’t be similar, so polar opposite it was impossible to see Sunstreaker’s expressionless face reflected in Sideswipe’s dazzling smile. They were red and yellow images reflected in a warped mirror, identical sparks holding nothing in common but the fact that they couldn’t exist without one another on the other side of the glass. 

They were broken, and he wanted them anyway. 

He wasn’t angry at Sunstreaker and Sideswipe anymore, not any more than he’d be at anybody who laid him out in a brawl. He wasn’t even angry at Jazz for putting him into this whole situation. It wasn’t the twin’s fault he’d gotten attached anymore than it was Jazz’s fault Smokescreen had volunteered. They were just convenient targets, something he could take his frustrations out on, because the actual problem, the actual _person_ he was mad at was Prowl. 

Smokescreen resented the Pit out of Prowl. The TacHead had everything, _was_ everything, and everybody loved him for it. The Autobots at the base collectively idolized him for his mind and worshiped him for his body. The most suave spawn of a glitch around lost his cool the second that big beautiful bumper bounced -- or Prowl even said ‘hello,’ apparently. Two gorgeous hunks of metal savagery wanted him like nothing else, and that -- that hurt worst of all. 

Who wanted Smokescreen? Just him, for being him. Nobody. Nobody wanted him. People _settled_ for him. He was the outpost’s jury-rigged patch on their empty spot. Jazz got a Prowl-shaped person to practice conversation with. Sunstreaker and Sideswipe got a Prowl-shaped date. Everybody got a Prowl-shaped frametype to fantasize about, up close and personal, and when they looked at him, they saw Prowl, not him. Even the blasted missions the outpost had been running lately used him because he looked like Primus-fragged Prowl!

He gambled; people hit him up when they wanted in on a betting pool. He evidently had an optic for matchmaking; they came calling when they had relationship problems. When they needed something from him, they remembered he existed. The remainder of the time, a Prowl-shaped cut-out could replace him and nobody would notice.

Smokescreen hunched over, expression pinched and miserable. Worried, Hound touched him on the shoulder. “Smokescreen? Are you okay?”

And the truth came out in a harsh yell: “ **No!** ” 

Smacking Hound’s hand off him with one door, Smokescreen spun and stormed the length of the wall. It was lucky there weren’t any Decepticons attacking, since he wouldn’t have seen them coming. He didn’t see a thing as he glared off into the distance. 

“Smokescreen?” Hound called after him.

“I don’t want to talk about it,” he rasped without turning around. His throat closed, and his vocalizer ached, but he kept his silence until Hound quietly left him to stand sentry. He truly didn’t see how talking would change anything about the situation. Wheeljack said he should, and a small part of him thought maybe he was right, but insecurities, doubt, and self-pity were a destructive mix. He’d been choking them down with his energon for far longer than Ambulon’s daily prescriptions, internalizing it like poison. He hadn’t tasted it, had blocked out the bitter taste, but it filled up his tanks and overflowed his mind, built-up inside him to critical levels that had nowhere to go but in a descending spiral.

Isolation seemed like the only solution, if to keep others from sticking their hands into his open wounds. They wanted to ‘help’ him. Sure they did. They wanted their Prowl-shaped mascot back. 

Maybe he should transfer out.

Except that outside Outpost 49-B6-4, he never got attention like this. It was addictive, even if it was Prowl’s reflected glory. It made him feel important, like someone besides the nigh-invisible Autobot soldier he was supposed to be, but standing out from the ranks was dangerous. His real assignment, the rank only a select few knew he held, depended on secrecy. His reports were sent directly, if discreetly, to Optimus Prime, reports officers never saw and fellow grunts never suspected he filed, and the accuracy of those reports relied on how well Smokescreen disappeared into the background of any given base he transferred into. 

Walking into this bizarre nest of Praxian-lust had put him in a spotlight that threatened to expose him. He should leave. He didn’t want to. 

Sideswipe made mean comments and Sunstreaker knocked him out, but he’d dated far more neurotic mechs as the war drew out. Under any other circumstances, sleek speedsters of their caliber wouldn’t give him a second glance. They were using him, didn’t feel anything deeper than lust for him, but Smokescreen still ached in spark-sick longing to keep them. They were gorgeous, and strong, and Sideswipe could make him laugh a filter up, and Sunstreaker was as unashamedly, erotically, sensually tactile as he was emotionally distant. Smokescreen’s instincts shrieked at him to go, but he wanted so very, very much to stay, to hold onto them a little longer, to look into their optics and pretend they were his. Pretend Prowl didn’t have everything he wanted. 

A week later, he was no closer to deciding whether to stay or go. His depression had gotten worse, however, sinking his doors down to sag down his back. He couldn’t recharge, although he turned his face to the wall and faked it to stop his bunkmates from hassling him about it. Everyone kept _pestering_ him, asking him if he was alright, if they could do anything, if he’d heard the latest joke, if he’d gone to see Ambulon lately, if he wanted to talk. 

No. The answer was no. The answer was always no, and he wished they’d just stop asking. 

He avoided talking to people if he could possibly help it. It took too much effort to hold a conversation. It was easier to not go to the messhall than deal with all the people in it. Instead, he listlessly ate the emergency rations from his locker. They kept his fuel gauge above empty. The concentrated energon sticks were likely older than the war, but he didn’t care. It wasn’t as though he tasted them. 

Wheeljack’s nagging acquired more urgency, until Smokescreen started snapping at anyone even looking at him. Most people were. The usual appreciative glances had stopped a while back. He was a highly attractive frametype, which hadn’t changed, but he was also upset. Really upset, the kind of upset that pinged even war-callous soldiers, much less mechs that considered themselves his friends. Time passed, and he frayed, brittle and sharp around the ragged edges. His paint dulled, his chevron blunted, and he looked haggard, his optics paled from exhaustion too deep he couldn’t escape it even during fitful recharge. 

It reached the point of Ironhide making noises at Jazz about an intervention. Jazz made squeamish noises back, sounding helpless, because it wasn’t as though he wasn’t _trying_. Red Alert made a lot of noise at them both about the many and varied failures of those tries. Blaster made no noise at all, playing invisible as the hinting noises devolved into an argument of who exactly was responsible around here for base morale versus individual needs. 

Meanwhile, visibly concerned, the outpost followed Smokescreen with their optics, whispering _’should we, we should’_ s just out of audio range. He didn’t notice. What he _did_ notice seemed strangely disconnected to him. He noticed the low, soothing pulse of Blaster’s music in a rhythm he could feel throbbing in his doors. He noticed Warpath lower his volume to an actual indoor voice, and the way Wheeljack refused to stop bothering him. He noticed Ironhide assigning him to the command vanguard during the last Decepticon attack, pulling him back close to the wall. He definitely noticed Jazz sending subordinates in a nonstop barrage of annoying little deliveries: bitty cubes of strangely fizzy energon from the medbay, nonsense messages from Sunstreaker and Sideswipe down in confinement, odd security notes from Red Alert. Everyone seemed dead-set on pointless, meaningless, endless check-ins, keeping tabs on him as if he’d suddenly decide to walk off in the middle of a duty shift or something. 

Weirder yet, Mirage or Bumblebee had taken to ghosting around him while he was off-duty, for no reason whatsoever. At least, not an official one.

“Practice,” Mirage said when Smokescreen caught him following in his shadow for the fifth time.

Smokescreen gave him a blank look. It had to be a Special Ops training thing. “Okay.”

“Practice!” Bumblebee parroted later the same day, but this time Smokescreen scoffed.

“You’re standing in the middle of the barracks.”

“Yup!”

Smokescreen gestured at nothing, aggravated. “You’re not hiding or anything! What’s the point of practicing on me if you don’t even try?”

“Ah,” Bumblebee wagged a finger, “but I never said what I was practicing.”

Smokescreen stared at him. Bumblebee smiled brightly back. 

Deciding it wasn’t worth starting an argument over, Smokescreen eventually broke the one-sided stare down. He flopped onto his bunk on his side, facing the wall, and set about ignoring the world’s most incompetent spy standing at his back. 

Said world’s most incompetent spy simply stood by the bunk the rest of the shift, exchanging quiet greetings with the people as they passed through the barracks. He didn’t say anything to Smokescreen, only nodded to him once the Praxian rose to return to duty, sympathetic blue optics meeting dull navy. Smokescreen revved his engine at his unwanted watcher, but it felt weirdly better having someone nearby. He wasn’t alone, but nothing was asked of him. No demands made. Just neutral company. 

It became a bizarre outpost hobby. People kept standing or sitting near him, no matter what he was doing. Smokescreen revved and growled, chevron lowered to keep them at a distance, but it didn’t discourage anyone. He didn't get it. He didn't have the energy to care that much.

He didn't have the energy to avoid Prowl, either. Prowl happened. It was like an Act of Primus, around here. 

Besides, Prowl outranked him. He could run, but Prowl could order him to put the brakes on before he got anywhere. 

Weary, Smokescreen drew himself up to attention as Prowl climbed up onto the wall with him. "Sir."

"At ease." Prowl scanned the horizon on automatic, but it looked like more of an excuse to avoid something than spot Decepticons. "Anything?"

"Nothing, sir." Smokescreen dutifully turned his gaze back to the horizon as well. 

The silence was smothering. 

"I believe I owe you an apology," Prowl said out of nowhere.

The silence returned, cloudy with a chance of horribly awkward. Primus save them. Smokescreen had no idea what to say, and Prowl's graceless conversation starter sat clunkily between them like a landmine. It was almost physical. Smokescreen kind of wanted to take a step away to get some distance in case it exploded. 

After a minute of silently staring at nothing together, Prowl reset his vocalizer and gingerly prodded the sentence lying at their feet. "Yes." He squared his shoulders, doors bravely perked as he took it up. "I apologize."

The good news was that it didn't explode. Prowl had essentially shoved it into his arms, but it didn’t blow up. Smokescreen fumbled to hold the unwanted, unanticipated gift. "Uh..." Okay. He could do this. Just accept it, let Prowl go on his way, and metaphorically dump it over the side of the wall to never be seen or thought of again. "Thanks."

Speaking of clunky statements. Prowl frowned lightly, turning puzzled optics on his fellow Praxian. "People generally do not thank their offenders for an apology, in my experience."

"They don't?" Wait, no, he knew this. Smokescreen tried for a little laugh and gave up when it came out garbled. "Right, bit tired. I meant apology accepted. It's fine."

Prowl's frown didn't go away. If anything, it deepened as he studied Smokescreen, taking in the various tell-tale signs of stress, of strain, of long-term pain that had nothing to do with physical hurts but made its mark on his body nonetheless. They shared a frametype. Prowl knew what to look for in a fellow Praxian.

Smokescreen felt like the holographic battleground they used to play tactical games on. Shifting uneasily on his feet, he debated the likelihood of escape by walking sentry. Standing in one place made him an easy target. Maybe he could just ease away down the wall, and -- 

"Don't," Prowl said, voice full of stern authority. Smokescreen stopped, face turned away. "Look at me, Smokescreen."

"I'd rather not. Sir." Smokescreen shut off his optics, on duty or not, and denied the pain in his spark. Please. 

"Then listen," Prowl said quietly, and his feet made next to no noise as he stepped closer. "I regret what I said. It may be true, but it was improper of me to have said it to you."

The rattling hitch deep in Smokescreen's vents was all that was left of his laugh. "I don’t know who told you you had to apologize, but they were wrong. You didn't offend me. You didn’t tell me anything I didn't already know, sir."

"No. It's been brought to my attention in a rather emphatic way that what I said hurt you. That was never my intention, and that is what I owe you an apology for. While I cannot take back what is said, I hope you permit me to elaborate." Prowl walked slowly around to stand in front of him. Smokescreen left his optics offline, unable to face him. 

The officer waited a moment, but Smokescreen had nothing to say. "Very well. Then I want you to know the circumstances of my observation. I based it off of what limited information you fed me -- I realized in your absence these past weeks what you have been doing, but that is a conversation I feel we should have later. That information was told from your perspective, not those of the people around you, and you heavily weighted it to draw parallels I did not, and do not, see. That bias affected my accuracy. My observations are still correct within the context I learned it, but that context is heavily flawed by unspoken implications from a biased source attempting to influence my conclusions. Having accessed information about the situation from sources other than you, I may find reason to revise my words in the near future." 

Prowl drew in a deep vent and took a step closer, pressing into Smokescreen's personal space. Smokescreen leaned back, optics jolting online as proximity sensors won out over despair, and Prowl nodded to him. "Regardless of that possibility, it has come to my attention that what I said impacted you worse than if I had used my sidearm, and evidently I stand the greatest chance of repairing this damage. I was not told to apologize for my words. I was asked to speak with you in hopes of perhaps changing your mind about, ah, yourself.” He glanced away before meeting Smokescreen’s optics again. “Even if, as you say, you already knew, it was not polite in any way for me to have implied that you could be replaced, or that helping someone you consider a friend makes you a placeholder. That is what I wish to apologize for. I failed to take into account that we are not markers on a board to be traded out...as have you, Smokescreen.” Smokescreen’s expression turned puzzled, and Prowl’s doors drew back. “The situation you described to me reflects your view of the people around you. I don’t believe you realize how you underestimate their relations to you.” 

“I would not have realized how deeply I wounded you without the intervention of your friends. **Your** friends, Smokescreen. It has been made exceptionally clear to me that," a startled quirk twitched one side of Prowl's mouth, "certain mechs of our mutual acquaintance will choose you over me if forced to make the choice."

That shocked a quick in-vent from Smokescreen. A tingling burst of hope spangled through him, painful in its intensity, and he stared at Prowl. "Sideswipe?" he breathed, not daring to really say it aloud. “Sunstreaker..?”

Prowl paused, regarding him as he would a medical emergency appearing out of thin air. Some part of him had been expecting a trick, another joke, but what he'd been handed was the blind, hurting opposite of an attempt at humor. Sadness sat strangely on his face as he looked at Smokescreen.

"Pardon me, I misspoke. The certain mechs I speak of are more numerous than I suggested." He reached out as if expecting Smokescreen to bolt. Hand gentle, he turned the other Praxian to face the interior of the outpost. "It would be faster to show you rather than list them all," he said.

Optics wide, Smokescreen stared.

The inner courtyard of the outpost was full, mechs standing along the wall and gathered below. Sideswipe and Sunstreaker stood side-by-side under Ironhide's guard, Blaster standing half-in/half-out of the outpost’s main door nearby. The nameless tangle of Special Operations clustered in the middle, their ever-changing rotation headed by the familiar forms of Mirage and Bumblebee. And Cliffjumper, standing among the sneaks and spies like a blunt object among specialized tools. As always, Mirage hadn’t risked Cliffjumper feeling frisky and had put Bumblebee between them. Ahead of that group, Wheeljack sat on a gurney that Ambulon, for reasons known only to him, had dragged into the middle of the courtyard to stand behind, looking impatient. Warpath had an arm around Wheeljack’s waist but was otherwise behaving in public. Hound and Trailbreaker were standing sentry on the wall, turned inward against every rule and regulation. Jazz stood close enough on the stairs he could have reached out to touch Smokescreen on the knee. 

Every last one of them was looking past Prowl, at _him_.

 

**[* * * * *]**

 

_[ **A/N:** Don’t fret, it goes back to humor after this.]_


	7. Pt. 7

**Title:** Third Wheel  
**Warning:** This inhabits a weird area where it’s a humor fic, but people sensitive to misunderstandings causing serious discomfort probably shouldn’t read.  
**Rating:** PG  
**Continuity:** G1  
**Characters:** Smokescreen, Blaster, Jazz.  
**Disclaimer:** The theatre doesn’t own the script or actors, nor does it make a profit from the play.  
**Motivation (Prompt):** People on Tumblr were talking about ‘bots dribbling on themselves while fantasizing about voluptuous bumpers. It had to be written.

 **[* * * * *]**  
**Part Seven**  
**[* * * * *]**

 

“Jazz,” Smokescreen declared, “is avoiding me.”

Blaster didn’t look up from his console. “He does that.”

Smokescreen conceded the point. Given the option of weaseling out of conflict, the mech slid out of range like he was greased. Jazz wasn’t one for head-on confrontations if he could attack sidelong or undermine from within. Unfortunately, applying his job habits to his personal relations resulted in Smokescreen seeing plenty of envoys _from_ Jazz but neither headlights nor taillights of the Head of Special Operations himself. 

“I’m not mad at him,” Smokescreen said softly to his own console. He picked idly at the keys, inputting data at glacial speed. “Everybody else’s gone back to normal. I wish he would, too. I’m not a frail crystal he’s going to shatter.”

A thoughtful look turned to consider him for a moment, but Blaster shook his head and went back to work. “Don’t think it’s all about you, m’mech. I mean, you shook us up, not gonna lie, but the Jazzmeister’s officially spooked. Isn’t every day he stumbles face-first into a big ol’ hole in his personal security -- cool it!” He threw up a hand to cut off Smokescreen’s protest. “I’m not saying you didn’t have reason, okay? Nobody’s saying that. You don’t gotta be so defensive.” The comm. specialist winced. “Ahhh, listen to me jabber. Look. Look, Smokes.” He swung around so his hands were still on the keyboard but he could face his friend. “You be as defensive as you got to to feel safe, but give us a chance, you get me? Give us the benefit of a doubt. Jazz didn’t see this coming. He didn’t expect to have to choose, much less choose you over Prowler. There’s nothing wrong with him getting knocked off his feet by that.” He took his hands off the keyboard, spreading them at the Praxian as if presenting the idea. Jazz had his own thing going on. It was related, but not _about_ -about Smokescreen. 

The apprehension on Blaster’s face was a familiar sight. People wore that look a lot around Smokescreen lately. Everyone was still figuring out what topics set him off, and so was he. 

Smokescreen gave it a minute of thought, almost probing at the tender spot in his spark with the idea. Did it hurt? Not really. It made sense when he thought about it, actually. Jazz had had a crush on Prowl a lot longer than he’d known Smokescreen. 

It still shocked Smokescreen that Jazz had confronted Prowl over him. He couldn’t imagine what it’d been like for Jazz to be put in that position. As Blaster had said, avoidance was more Jazz’s relationship style. Outright asking Prowl, of all people, to help fix whatever had broken in Smokescreen probably counted as a living nightmare. And Prowl had said it’d been made clear to him that the outpost would choose Smokescreen if they had to make the choice.

At the time, that statement had succeeded in making Smokescreen feel valuable compared to the TacHead. Now he thought about how that kind of change could mess with someone who’d put _so much_ value on Prowl for so very long. Waking up to the sudden realization that Jazz valued someone’s friendship more than his crush on Prowl -- well, it made Smokescreen feel warm and fuzzy inside, but he was the friend in question, so forgive him his bias. 

He understood it was probably more disorienting for Jazz. “So what you’re saying is that he’s lost in uncharted territory.”

“And he’s scared to ask his navigator for guidance, ‘cause he thinks you might get offended.”

“Oh, for Primus’ sake…”

Blaster grinned at him as he facepalmed. “Lay off him, mech. You really had us walking on empty ammo casing for a while, here. It’s worse for him. He don’t wanna lose you as a friend, my hand to Primus. None of us do. But he needs your help dealing with his mess of a life, like whoa does he ever, and he’s afraid to ask ‘cause he really, really don’t want you thinking he only wants you around for counseling.”

“That’s not what I think,” Smokescreen mumbled into his hands.

“Maybe not now.” Blaster scooted his chair across the room in order to put a hand on the Praxian’s shoulder. “But you weren’t in too good a headspace not all that long ago, and that kind of slag don’t go away all at once. We know. We’re working on sorting out where the boundaries are. He’s just got a bad case of Scared To Overstep.”

Sighing, Smokescreen dragged his hands down his face before letting them fall to the keyboard. “I get that.”

“Yeah? Yeah. Good. So.” The console bleeped, an irate red Security window popping up on one of the screens, and Blaster pushed off Smokescreen’s chair to roll back to his duty station. Some quick typing to mollify Red Alert, and Blaster tossed a inquiring look over his shoulder. “So. Jazz didn’t see this coming, and he don’t know how to handle it now that it’s dumped on his lap. He wants your help. He’s never gonna ask for it. What do you do, Smokescreenipondeeni?”

At least that question was easy to answer. “I help the guy.” That had never been in question, although now that it was pointed out, he could see why everyone else thought it might have been. 

Smokescreen shook his head as he went back to inputting numbers. Impromptu relationship counselor wasn’t a job he’d ever applied for, but it seemed that he was the right mech for the job. Meddling came naturally to him. Giving people relationship advice felt like cheating at the game, a game where nobody knew any of the rules in the first place. Giving up playing now would feel stranger than continuing, and anyway, Jazz had pretty conclusively proven he didn’t want Smokescreen around just to help nab Prowl. The rest of the outpost had, too.

They kept drooling over his bumper, but that was okay. Smokescreen had come to terms with that. It felt normal, and what the frag, he was proud of his looks.

He shrugged his doors, pushing the thoughts away. “How do you know all this stuff?” he asked as he typed. “Am I that out of touch with gossip around here?” Snorted laughter answered his wry question, and Smokescreen blinked at his friend. Blaster grinned into his console. “What?”

“Mech, it ain’t gossip if everybody knows. You’re the only one he’s avoiding,” Blaster said. “He’s been going out of his mind trying to sort this on his own, and we’re starting to count laps what with how many times he’s circled the issue.”

Smokescreen blinked at him. For a moment, he couldn’t find words. When he did, they came out in an indignant squawk. “Why hasn’t anyone done anything?!”

“Pfft, like what? You know Jazz. He don’t listen to nobody when he gets like this.” The monitors flicked through a dozen spreadsheets, updating as reports came in and decoded, but Blaster was a professional. He could multitask, especially if it meant keeping this conversation going. “It’s like him and Prowler, y’know? It’s not like we didn’t try to give him advice before you got here, but he just don’t want to **hear** it.”

“So why does he listen when **I** deal it out?”

“I dunno, but Red Alert’s theory is mind control. You got no idea how many meeting agendas Ironhide’s had to take you off of.”

Fingers stopped on the keyboard as Smokescreen whipped around to give Blaster an incredulous look. Say what now?

The computer beeped complaints, and the Praxian hastily lifted his finger off the key it’d been holding down. “Are you joking? I can’t tell anymore,” he said as he deleted the long line of repeated numbers he’d accidentally entered. No, the outpost didn’t actually have 44000000000000000000000000000000000 bottles of engine honey. 

“Not even joking, Smokester.”

“What’s he think I do, hypnotize people with my doors?”

“Close, but no cy-gar.” Blaster grinned at Smokescreen’s chuckle. “You think that’s funny, you oughta have heard the sound Red made when Perceptor mentioned his Magic Bumper theory.” The computer beeped again, and Blaster glanced over at his pal’s stunned expression. “ **That** was a joke -- “ He cocked his head, optics flashing in thought. “Er, I mean Perceptor said it as a joke, not that I was joking, but recycle me for a junker if Red didn’t take him seriously. Real talk, Smokes: it took us **weeks** to talk Red outta classifying you and Prowler as Decepticon infiltrators after that.”

This explained so much about his first few months in the outpost. _So much_. Smokescreen gave up on data entry, too dismayed to keep working. “That study...”

“Yep.”

“But…”

“Nope. Red insisted you had to be analyzed, and none of us were gonna argue.” Like fun anybody at this particular outpost would pass up the chance to ogle a Praxian up close and personal. “Perceptor had fun. Everyone else got into it. We learned all sorts of new things.” Some of them could even be talked about in public in other bases. There were plenty of things talked about in public in this outpost that didn’t go outside the gates, so that was kind of an accomplishment in education.

Doors flared. Blaster ducked down, trying to peer past the blockade. He couldn’t tell if Smokescreen was embarrassed, defensive, or angry. “Look, I know he seems like he’s got some screws loose, but the ‘Cons have tried weirder things. Seriously. You’ve been through some of the scrap they pull. Red’s the best at what he does, and sure, he gets a bug in his systems over stuff we think’s nothing but nuts and bolts, but you ever see him miss a detail when it counts? That takes suspecting even the silly things. Ironhide approved the study ‘cause it didn’t hurt anybody to do but it could have hurt everybody if we didn’t. Okay? And hey, it worked out! Didn’t explain a slagging thing why Jazz listens to you, but it’s already a mystery why he can’t think straight the second Prowl says hello, so I think Red just wrote it off as a Praxian thing. The rest of us did, anyway.”

Smokescreen lowered one door enough to glower at Blaster over it. “You all believe in the Magic Bumper theory, don’t you.”

Look at all the monitors Blaster suddenly had to pay attention to! All of his attention, none to spare for talking, what a shame. Wow, so many things to do, must do them now.

“Right.” Fuffing his vents, Smokescreen drummed his fingers on the console. Well, if magic was what it’d take to produce Jazz out of thin air, then he’d get his magic on. “Guess it’s time for some sleight of hand,” he said under his breath. He didn’t notice Blaster’s slightly alarmed look at his back. 

Magic, as it turned out, came in the form of candy. Or, more accurately, Open Ordnance Payload Shells, but eating something Wheeljack called O.O.P.S. made everyone nervous, so candy it was. A bowl holding the shattered pieces of some appeared in the middle of the messhall, and it was a magnetic lure. Bait of the best kind: edible, tasty, and worth getting caught for.

Everyone knew it was a trap, but there was already a certain degree of _’we shouldn’t be doing this’_ involved in munching artillery shells. Nobody knew precisely why the shells were edible at all, but then again, nobody was really complaining. Wheeljack insisted it worked, and Perceptor agreed. Thus Wheeljack manufactured the shells, the artillery crews loaded and sealed them, and Ironhide kept the resulting candy-coated ammunition locked in the armory away between battles. Otherwise the Autobots would nibble on them. They knew they shouldn’t, but the things were tastier than rations.

So when a whole bowl of candy turned up in the messhall, everyone knew they shouldn’t, but Primus spare their sparks, they were going to do it anyway. 

Besides, the candy was in pieces. The artillery crews could only use intact shells. Broken shells were fair game for eating.

Snacktime was declared.

Word spread quickly. Anybody not on duty -- and people were grabbing extras for friends who couldn’t make it -- flocked to the messhall in hopes of getting a handful before the trap closed. Or before Ambulon heard of the windfall and came to confiscate the bowl for the sake of their health. Candy wasn’t exactly good for their tanks. They didn’t care. Om nom nom.

Jazz breezed in fifteen minutes after the quartermaster set out the bowl. He sent a jaunty salute toward that worthy mech as he collected a large piece. “Remind me t’ thank Wheeljack!” he called as he turned to leave.

“He says ‘you’re welcome.’”

Jazz froze, candy sticking out of his mouth and visor comically wide.

Smokescreen folded his arms. “But he botched this batch as a favor to me, so as a responsible officer, you shouldn’t be heard thanking him.” That visor made it hard to tell where Jazz was looking, but he’d bet Ironhide’s favorite gun the black-and-white was searching for an escape route. He spread his doors to thoroughly block the door. 

The shell cracked sharply as Jazz clenched his jaw, but he managed to swallow around a convincing attempt at his usual smile. “I’ll make sure t’ keep it between us,” he croaked once he’d choked the too-large piece down. “As the responsible officer I am. ‘Cause I’m so responsible.” 

“A responsible officer would sit down and talk with me like a civilized mech instead of attempting to make a run for it,” Smokescreen said flatly.

Jazz didn’t look all that civilized at the moment. He looked like a cornered mech. 

Fair enough, as he was effectively cornered. Everyone else in the messhall with him heaved a sigh of relief. The Praxian in the doorway had them trapped in here, too, but obvious his prey was black, white, and Special Operations all over.

After a long look around the messhall, Jazz admitted defeat. “Alright,” he said quietly, right before spinning on his heel to stalk back toward the table with the bowl of candy. People scattered out of his way, scared by the look on his face. A huffier grouch was rarely seen outside of Cliffjumper during a tiff with Mirage, and Jazz glared at everyone in general as though he was offended by everything and looking for a convenient target. 

Smokescreen smiled a bit as he followed. Jazz really hated being outsmarted.

Snatching the bowl of candy up, the black-and-white plopped himself down in its place, feet on the bench. He gestured at the bench in mocking invitation. “Might as well sit an’ talk, since y’went through all this to snare me.” 

“Yeah, I did.” Smokescreen chose to sit at the table instead of on it. “Can I have some?”

Jazz cradled the bowl in the crook of his arm possessively. “No. Go get your own.” This was his bait. He’d earned it. 

“Okay.” Smokescreen didn’t protest. He just sat there looking up at Jazz, still smiling a little. Jazz tried to ignore him, chewing candy industriously, but Smokescreen put his elbow on the table and settled in to wait. He could be patient. 

Disappointed people stood around the messhall watching the bowl empty with expressions of woe. Jazz growled when Trailbreaker inched closer, hand extended, and the mech skittered back. No touching the candy bowl. It was now labeled Property of Special Operations. Hands off before Jazz took someone’s hand off.

Smokescreen gave him enough time to eat half the bowl. Eating, even in the middle of semi-hostile territory full of people greedy to swoop in and steal his bowl, was a soothing rite. Eating something he wasn’t technically supposed to have brought on an illicit sort of glee, at least until Ambulon had to clean the gunk out of his tubes during maintenance. Setting out the bowl of candy had been an underhanded tactic to catch Jazz, but letting the saboteur chow down uninterrupted was just as much a low blow. It was another trap. A delicious, delicious trap.

Despite himself, Jazz started to relax. 

Once his defenses were breached, Smokescreen struck. “Thank you,” he said, soft and earnest. “I appreciate what you did.” Jazz froze a second time, flecks of candy on his lips and visor darting around in panicked search for an escape route, but the Praxian pitilessly forged onward without giving him two seconds to recover his balance. “You didn’t have to do it, but you did, and I -- I’m glad I have friends like you to help me when I need it.”

There. He’d dropped the emotional bomb on his trapped prey. 

Jazz stared at him for a long moment, caught out. Poor guy really hadn’t been dealing with this well on his own, had he? Smokescreen felt bad for him.

He jerked when Smokescreen patted his knee, but Smokescreen poured sincerity into his voice. “I just wanted to say thanks, Jazz. That’s all. And…I miss talking to you.”

What, more candy? Of course more candy. In case of emotional confessions that couldn’t be laughed off by normal carefree attitude, apply more candy. More candy was the solution. Jazz tore his visor away in order to look intently into the bowl. Handfuls of candy pieces crammed into his mouth, poofing out his cheeks as he resolutely ignored Smokescreen and the turmoil of feelings thrust upon him. _Crich crnch crnch munch._

Everybody else in the messhall, too far away to hear Smokescreen, made dying carburetor noises. Nooo, not the candyyyy. Why did Jazz torment them so? It was disappearing right in front of their optics, nooooo.

“It’s okay. We don’t have to talk right now if you’re not comfortable.”

 _Mnchmnch CRACK crnch crunch._ Candy munching turned all the way up to eleven. _Ronch rnch CRUNCH._

Smokescreen smiled gently at his struggling friend. Awww, look at him go. “Ambulon’s going to kill you if you eat that whole thing,” he warned.

Jazz hunched over the bowl and glared at him. See how much he didn’t care? Look into his visor and see how little Ambulon’s threats mattered to the bane of the Decepticons, Head of Special Operations, the nightmare that went bump in the night. He feared no medic!

It didn’t escape Smokescreen’s notice that Jazz angled hide the bowl from the door. Fear, no, but there was such a thing as sensible precaution.

“I hope to hear the tale of you holding an actual conversation with Prowl someday soon,” Smokescreen said at last, relenting. He’d hoped to start a conversation, but it looked like stubbornness and offense had Jazz’s exhaust pipe in a knot. Ah, well. The groundwork was laid. “I’ll see you later.”

As he stood to leave, however, Jazz forced a loud swallow, grimacing. “Wait, I -- slaggit.” Smokescreen stopped, and the saboteur looked down into the mostly-empty bowl to avoid his optics. Smokescreen gave him a moment, a moment that grew into a minute, and he got tired of standing there, so he sat back down on the bench. 

Jazz glanced to the side just enough to meet his optics for a split second. “I’m glad it worked, too, Smokes.” 

Smokescreen smiled up at him.

A crooked grin crossed Jazz’s face, and he raised his voice. “‘Cause Plan B was lettin’ the twins each take an end and meet in the middle t’ kiss.”

“ **With tongues!** ” the entire messhall cheered, every cube raised in loud, whooping toast. 

Smokescreen startled so hard he fell off the bench. Jazz sighed, mouth twisted in resignation to the weirdness that was life around here. Wild optics peered over the edge of the table, darting every which way. Doors quivered straight upright. Jazz shrugged and offered the bewildered Praxian his bowl of candy like some sort of backward apology for scaring the daylights out of him, and a smattering of laughter went through the room. 

Smokescreen looked at the offered bowl, then up at him. “Wh-what?”

“It was a popular plan. We talked about it a lot,” Jazz explained without really explaining. 

“Talked about what?”

“The twins makin’ it up to you. By, ah,” Jazz coughed into a fist, trying to avoid saying it. Smokescreen just kept staring at him, however, and Jazz made a face. “Kissing.”

“ **With tongues!** ” 

Smokescreen managed not to fall over this time, possibly because he was already on the floor. He looked around, absolutely baffled by the rampant enthusiasm in the messhall. “You talked about Sunstreaker and Sideswipe kissing?!”

“ **With tongues!** ” 

“Dear Primus below, will you people stop that?!” Oh, great, now they never would. Flustered, Smokescreen scrambled to his feet. “They’d never -- “ He shut up just in time and instead waved his hands, trying to convey what he meant. “That! Do that! They don’t do that!”

“After the slag they put y’ through?” Jazz gave him a wry smile. “Smokes, they **offered**.” 

The Praxian gaped at him. No _way_.

Yes way. Jazz gestured at the rest of the room. “These perverts are the ones insisting they should do more. Somethin’ about making it a proper plan if my idea didn’t pan out.”

“Kiss with tongues!” someone shouted from the back of the messhall. To Smokescreen’s complete disbelief, it quickly turned into a chant of, “Kiss with tongues! Kiss with tongues! Kiss with tongues! Kiss with tongues! Kiss with tongues! Kiss with tongues!”

Smokescreen sank down on the bench, optics pale in horrified embarrassment. And from imagining it, although he’d never admit to that part. Trays banged on tables in time with the chant, picking up speed and volume, and he put his face in his hands as his fans clicked on. “Please make them stop,” he whimpered. 

Jazz took pity on him. “No problem.” Standing up on the table, he reset his vocalizer to a higher volume. “Megatron and Optimus should kiss!”

“ **With tongues!** ”

A brief, appalled silence filled the messhall.

“Ewwww.”

“Jazz! No!”

“Well, there’s a mental image that’ll never leave.”

“It burns! It burnsssss.”

“Ugh! Really? Was that necessary?”

“Huh. That’s kind of hot.”

“Ambulon!!”

“What? Don’t judge me. I’ve seen your medical record. Speaking of which,” the medic turned his glare on the cause of the chaos, “who's been eating O.O.P.S.? Health & Safety Regulations exist for a reason, people!”

Jazz, being wise in the ways of distraction, disappeared during the stampede. 

 

**[* * * * *]**


	8. Pt. 8

**Title:** Third Wheel  
 **Warning:** This inhabits a weird area where it’s a humor fic, but people sensitive to misunderstandings causing serious discomfort probably shouldn’t read.  
 **Rating:** PG  
 **Continuity:** G1  
 **Characters:** Smokescreen, Wheeljack, Punch/Counterpunch, Jazz, Mirage  
 **Disclaimer:** The theatre doesn’t own the script or actors, nor does it make a profit from the play.  
 **Motivation (Prompt):** People on Tumblr were talking about ‘bots dribbling on themselves while fantasizing about voluptuous bumpers. It had to be written.

 

**[* * * * *]**   
**Part Eight**   
**[* * * * *]**

At some point, Smokescreen really needed to learn the names of all the people in Special Operations. He’d slowly come to the realization that Outpost 49-B6-4 was Special Ops’ home territory, while the rest of the people stationed here were just a thin cover for the constant in-and-out of the division’s agents. It was frustrating to be part of the cover, however, if only because the roster changed constantly. It felt like as soon as the new transfers were introduced, they disappeared again. Three years later, he’d vaguely recognize people in the latest bunch of transfers, but he sort of recalled them having a different name, altmode, paintjob, and rank the last time they’d met, and it kept happening. At least nine of the several dozen SpecOps mechs cycling through the outpost over the years had been Decepticons when he’d first seen them, or at least he thought so. He wasn’t quite sure about it.

Any of it, really, even that they were Special Ops. He was guessing about that. There was an unofficial mute order over the whole outpost about it. The few times he’d started to say something, the entire messhall had turned a quelling glare on him, and he’d learned to drop the issue and just roll with the occasional bouts of weirdness. These days, he just pretended to believe that the new guy hadn’t been wearing a purple emblem and shooting at him a month ago.

No wonder Cliffjumper and Red Alert yelled _‘Traitor!’_ at shadows. It was enough to make a mech wonder if those two were stationed here as some kind of punishment.

So it wasn’t all that surprising to open the door into a full-on brawl in the messhall, people happily yelling profanities at each other while upending tables to take shelter together. Knives flew. Someone lobbed a smoke bomb. Through the resulting haze, Smokescreen could make out roughly two dozen bodies wrestling, running, and fighting amidst the tables. He could name roughly four of the mechs involved, recognized another six as ‘the [insert color here] one’, and those two jets had been Decepticon prisoners as of this morning. From the way they were swinging chairs back-to-back with Autobots, he doubted they were prisoners anymore. 

“Training day,” the guard at the door informed him without turning around. “Quartermaster’s set up in the courtyard if you want to eat. Don’t worry, we’ll have it cleaned up by nightfall.” He sounded like he’d repeated these lines until he could say them in his sleep.

Smokescreen squinted at him. “Counterpunch?”

The guy nearly jumped out of his armor. His…orange-yellow armor. “Smokescreen! You’re not supposed to be here!”

Wheeljack gave them both a strange look. “Do you know him?” He jerked his thumb at the guard attempting to recover his composure.

“Well…I thought I did. I guess not.” Awkward, Smokescreen shrugged at his friend. Maybe a trick of the light had cast violently yellow-orange armor as Decepticon purple from behind, but he sincerely doubted it. His first impression was that this guy was Counterpunch, and knowing how this outpost functioned, he was probably right. 

Manners and unspoken orders dictated Smokescreen not bring it up. He reset his vocalizer. “Er, hi. You know me, obviously, but your name is..?”

“Punch,” the guard said after a second’s hesitation. 

Good manners, come the Pit or punctured tires, were a staple of outpost life. “Nice to meet you, Punch,” Wheeljack said. “I’m Wheeljack.”

“Yeah, good to meet you, but, ahm, you seem a little familiar. Do I know you?” Smokescreen asked delicately.

Bumblebee tore by in altmode, two people balanced on top of him wielding what appeared to be a rubber mallet and Megatron’s fusion cannon, respectively. The one with the mallet seemed to be winning. Punch looked down long enough to check a tallymark on the tablet he was holding, then returned his attention to the two Autobots in the door. Since they hadn’t gone away as hoped, he had to talk to them. His optics took on a pinched look. “No, I don’t think so. You, ah, you’ve met my Decepticon counterpart, I take it?”

Sure, they’d go with that. He wasn’t going to say anything, but he marked it down as yet another thing he shouldn’t talk about outside the outpost walls, for safety’s sake. Never knew who might overhear what, after all. 

He nodded sagely at Punch. “That must be it. Counterpunch, right? He’s a nasty customer.” Flattery never hurt anyone. Except Jazz. But that was another issue altogether, and anyway, Prowl wasn’t anywhere nearby.

Wheeljack glanced between them. He probably knew more about Special Operations than most, but the mech regularly proposed engineering designs of his own making to both Ultra Magnus and Perceptor. His trademarked the Innocent Look sparkled with earnest interest. “Counterpart? You assigned to counter a ‘Con, or is it more a close rivalry thing?” he asked Punch, just the most innocent person ever. “Those can get pretty ugly. Tracks and Needlenose aren’t people you want to get between on the battlefield.”

“Something like that,” Punch said at the same time Smokescreen muttered, “Primus, don’t remind me.”

Punch blinked. “What?” 

Sighing, Smokescreen shook his head. “Nothing. Just…it’s more than rivalry there, mark my words, and I don’t care what anybody says, I’m not getting involved. I can’t fix that.”

“Uh, yeah.” Punch shifted on his feet. Smokescreen had the distinct feeling he knew something about that relationship. The Praxian eyed him closely, wondering if it was worth prying for details. Would a little gossip-sharing compromise Punch’s cover as a Decepticon…Autobot?...Decepticon-Autobot undercover-type personage of dubious faction loyalties? 

Punch seemed to sense his sudden interest. It was probably the doors. Smokescreen made a conscious effort to lower them back to neutral. 

Too late. Turning back to the ongoing fight, Punch pulled on a distant, icy act like a transformation. “Nice to meet you, Smokescreen, Wheeljack,” he dismissed them. 

“Uh-huh.” Now he was curious. What _did_ Punch know? 

Wheeljack didn’t notice Smokescreen’s shrewd look at Punch’s suspiciously purple-detailed back. The nurse shrugged and turned to go back down the hall. “Guess we should head for the courtyard if we want dinner,” he said, only to stop a couple steps away as he realized Smokescreen hadn’t budged. “You coming?”

“Go on, I’ll be there in a second.” He waved his friend on his way despite the curious look turned on him. “I just need to have a word with Punch.”

Cue the wariest of SpecOps agent. One of the jets hit the floor and screeched to a halt nearly at his feet, but Punch didn’t look away from eyeing Smokescreen as if the Praxian was about to explode. “No, you don’t. I’m busy.” 

“Doing what?”

“Counting -- “ Punch shook himself, pulling the tablet close. “That’s classified.” He gave Smokescreen the cold shoulder a second time. 

The flyer on the floor feet flipped over, shaking his head groggily. The second he recovered, the mech grinned like a maniac, set his feet, and charged back into the fray with thrusters on full. Everyone wisely dove out of his way. Someone either very brave or very stupid shot a towline that wrapped around his knee. Shrieking commenced as the brilliantly stupid person promptly got hauled along in an Xtreme Sport version of crowd surfing. Punch took many notes. 

Smokescreen inched closer while he was occupied. “Just a word?” he wheedled.

“No.”

“Two words, max.”

Blue optics -- not the visor Smokescreen remembered -- glared at him. He saw that inching. Don’t get any closer, Praxian. “I’m not having this argument with you.” 

“C’mon, just a few words.”

“Oh, now it’s a few. Before it was just one, but now you want more. Ack!” Punch twitched, arms jerking up in kneejerk reaction, ready to defend himself.

From the little-known fighting technique known as hugging. Truly it was a fearsome fighting style. Smokescreen snuggled him, holding on as a half-sparked struggling commenced. Nope, not letting go. He refused. It was too late. Assault complete. Let the passive-aggressive affection begin.

It was just a hunch, a thought he’d had seeing the tablet in Punch’s hand and the isolated position at the door. There was something about seeing a person standing alone during a group activity that made him deeply uneasy, especially a person who watched his own side with that sort of oddly evaluating look in his optics. Smokescreen had seen that look before, and it wasn’t in Ironhide’s optics when the tough old commander was refereeing sparring practice. It wasn’t the look of someone looking for a teaching moment. It was the look a sniper had when looking for a weak point. 

He had nothing to go on but how Punch stood, maybe the look in his optics, but he’d bet more on less. Smokescreen knew how to network, and that took an ability to read people only a conmech or undercover spy would understand. It was good business and helped him make legitimate connections, but Smokescreen didn’t deal in information aboveboard. He got it the underhanded way. Honestly, it shocked him he hadn’t been caught yet. When he’d figured out where Optimus Prime had sent him this time, he’d figured that Jazz would disappear him any day now as a suspected Decepticon agent. An Autobot spying on other Autobots was still a spy. If any people in the army were going to catch on what he was doing, it should have been Special Operations.

Until that day, however, he was going to keep using what he did to spot potential problems and do something about them. Punch struck him as a person on the edge of believing his fellow Autobots were the enemy. Smokescreen had the power to tip the scales in their favor.

If he took a punch to the chin for this, so be it. That was part of the thrill of taking a gamble, and he lost nothing if he was wrong. If he was right, however, it made all the difference.

And once Punch sullenly surrendered, Smokescreen hugged him tighter and acted on his hunch, leaning up to whisper in his quietest voice, “I trust you.”

That was all, and nothing more. 

Sometimes, that was enough. Smokescreen hoped so, but Punch went stoic and unreadable after the Praxian let him go, so it’d likely be one of those plays that couldn’t be called until the cards were down. Ah, well. 

“Sooooo, what’s up between Needlenose and Tracks?” he asked brightly as if nothing had happened.

Punch shut the messhall door in his face. 

Tsk. Rude. Grinning, he jogged off down the hall after Wheeljack. 

He thought that was the end of it, but a crowd of battered, smirking SpecOps mechs emerged from the outpost an hour later. They dispersed among the crowd picnicking in the courtyard, blending in as if they weren’t dented and limping. It was kind of eerie how fast they managed to disappear. Even the two jets, still wearing purple emblems on their wings, grabbed a tray and utensils from the line as though it were no big deal an Autobot quartermaster was giving them their ration. They joined a group and sat down, vanishing from a casual glance across the crowd. 

Smokescreen was too busy scooting over to make room for Jazz to mention it. The quartermaster doled out a tray, sending it passed hand-to-hand down to the black-and-white, and Jazz accepted it with a nod down the line. 

“How d’y’always know?” he said as he plopped down cross-legged beside Smokescreen.

“Know what?” That degree of flexibility wasn’t natural. Smokescreen side-eyed Jazz’s improbable position. 

Jazz gave him a Look. “I saw you an’ Punch. I see all.” He wiggled his fingers in mystic hoodoo style.

Smokescreen imitated Wheeljack. Jazz failed to be convinced of his innocence.

“How?” he asked again.

For a second, the look in Jazz’s visor seemed the slightest bit suspicious, and cold panic flooded down Smokescreen’s back. He grabbed the first answer that came to mind and blurted it out without thinking: “Magic Bumper!”

Jazz opened and closed his mouth, visor scrunched up on one side in the greatest _The Frag You Say?_ expression since Mirage asked Cliffjumper to recite some lines from a much-loved and oft-read bookfile in the bunk. Smokescreen hadn’t known the noblemech’s guilty pleasure was trashy romance novels up until then, but now everybody knew. Cliffjumper mumbled when he read, and Mirage had him reading a lot in his off-duty time these days. By now, repeated mumbling meant half the outpost probably knew the dialogue from the scene where the rough-and-tumble manual frametype ravished the down-on-his-luck Towers mech. 

Smokescreen grabbed the moment and ran with it. “Perceptor’s right. It knows things.”

“Things,” Jazz said. He clearly didn’t believe a word coming out of Smokescreen’s mouth, but amusement had overtaken the hint of suspicion. He shook his head at the Praxian but he didn’t push it. “Eh. Fine, be that way. Anyone got a spoon?” Blaster tossed one over, and Jazz caught it midair, turning the catch into digging into his first bowl of additives, his other hand taking up his ration cube for a sip to wash it down. “Thanks. What’s new an’ improved?” Somehow, despite talking with his mouth full, everyone understood him.

Trailbreaker leaned back to look at Jazz from under Smokescreen’s doors. “Smokes says he’s broke up with the twins.”

The spoon clinked to a stop against the bottom of the bowl. For a second, Jazz just stared. He recovered a moment later, shaking his head as he swallowed a mouthful of energon. “Slag, ‘breaker, you almost had me!”

Smokescreen flared his vents, exasperated. For love of luck and money! How many times did he have to repeat himself before people started taking him seriously? “We’re not dating,” he said.

The no-nonsense announcement merely earned a laugh from Jazz. “Uh, yeah, right. Pull th’ other one, Smokes. S’not polite to point it out or anythin’, but y’had to notice we were three to a bunk watchin’ you guys make up.”

Okay, what? He didn’t remember an audience. Then again, he didn’t remember much outside the bunk once the twins had brought him to the barracks. Against Ambulon’s advice, of course, but he hadn’t been in any mood to listen to medical advice after Prowl’s little bombshell of a revelation. Definitely not when Ironhide had granted the twins twenty minutes free of confinement or duty. They’d taken Smokescreen’s hand, one to each, and drawn him into their arms. It’d been less of an embrace than carrying him in tandem.

They hadn’t taken him to the bunk to frag him to Iacon and back. Looking back on it now, he recognized that they’d been afraid to, and rightfully so. He hadn’t been in very good shape at the time. What they had done had been enough to skip his fuel pump as it was. An entire orchestra could have shown up to provide mood music, and Smokescreen wouldn’t have noticed. He’d been blind to everything that wasn’t red and gold when they’d gotten him into them bunk.

It hadn’t been interfacing that knocked him out of it. It’d been the sheer intensity of how they held him, hugged him, laid him on the bunk like the most precious, fragile thing they’d ever been privileged enough to hold. Sunstreaker had slipped in behind him on the bunk, cradling Smokescreen between his knees, back to chest as he wrapped his arms around the Praxian’s waist to hold him in place. Smokescreen had laid back against him, shivering in long waves as low, raw words poured into his audio from the mouth pressed to his helm, words no one else imagined Sunstreaker capable of. Sideswipe’s apologies had been more audible but no less passionate, murmured between kisses rained over every part of Smokescreen not wrapped up by his brother.

It had been too much and not enough, perfect in every way…including a perfect, sparkbreaking end to something that should have never started. Whatever they had been together had come to a close in that bunk, no matter what their watchers obviously assumed they had seen. If Smokescreen, Sunstreaker, and Sideswipe still had a chance at a relationship, it would have to start from scratch, based on a new foundation they built themselves. There were hopes, things they’d said as the twins stood to go and Smokescreen slid into the first decent recharge he’d had in a month, but he’d let his silence in the time since really, finally end things.

In any case, wishful thinking for the future didn’t change the present. The fact being that, “Sideswipe’s not out of off-duty confinement for two months, and Sunstreaker’s locked up for five more than that. I’ve got plans, and those two aren’t included.” Engine revving his disgruntlement, Smokescreen climbed to his feet. “You people ever stop to think about what it’s going to take to prep **that** loser,” he stabbed a finger at the extremely amused loser in question, “for more than a handshake?”

Conversation screeched to a halt across the entire courtyard. Thunderstruck expressions spread across every face. It seemed as though he’d gotten through at last. Jazz’s spoon dangled from a slack mouth, threatening to fall, and his visor paled. He didn’t look so amused anymore. 

He was the only one, as everyone else began to grin.

Blaster leaned on his knee and jerked his thumb at Jazz. “So you’re telling me you broke up with the Do-able Duo ‘cause you’re gonna get your flirt on with him? This’s a thing? This’s really a thing you did.”

Well, it wasn’t the only reason he’d broken it off, but the other reasons were private. Smokescreen nodded. “Pretty much. I’d never cheat on my partner -- partners -- with anyone. Much less in public,” he added. “That’d be waaaaay past rude.”

“Mech, they’d probably pull up a chair an’ watch.”

“It’s disrespectful!”

“It’s smelting hot. Can we sell vids of this?” Blaster glanced toward the courtyard security cameras while Smokescreen facepalmed hard enough to dent his chevron.

“No!”

“Aw, why not?”

“Wait! Wait wait what?!” Tray clattering to the ground, Jazz scrambled to his feet, waving his hands for attention as he got between them. “Wait, what?! What’re you planning to do to me?!”

Smokescreen and Blaster stopped looking at each other and glanced at him. They looked back at each other. Blaster cocked his head. Smokescreen raised an optic ridge, skeptical. Blaster smirked. The Praxian threw up his hands, giving up. Fine! He’d do it!

“What the frag are you two -- “ Jazz stopped talking so abruptly he nearly choked on the words.

The hand on his hood had all his attention. It traced a meandering path up one stripe, light as a flame and heating Jazz one whispering touch at a time. After toying with the Autobot emblem for a moment, it flattened across Jazz’s hood and pushed gently down. Jazz bent forward as if entranced, and Smokescreen hiked his bumper up on top of the slightly shorter mech’s chest so he could lean in with his best flirting smile. Jazz’s visor went a dreamy, soft blue, not really seeing him so much as who he was obviously imagining. He pressed into Smokescreen, lips parting in yearning desire. Smokescreen chuckled, breathing out across those ready lips.

Two things happened at once, the first being that Jazz’s doors popped out from underneath his altmode roof. _Sproing!_

Not that alarming. It happened. Smokescreen had sort of been expecting a reaction along those lines.

He _hadn’t_ been expecting the loud click, or the sudden abundance of things twisting and clattering against his knees.

Smokescreen froze, optics wide. Jazz purred and leaned further into him. Everything around them stuttered to a stop. 

Movement resumed in jerky stops-and-starts, the motions of a crowd around a trainwreck. Hands covered mouths, horror and guilty fascination filling every face as everyone gaped at something between and below the two Autobots almost kissing in the center of the courtyard. Bumblebee’s hands opened and closed, torn between covering his appalled expression or opening outward in sheer helpless shock, but it just sort of ended up looking like he was clawing at the air. Mirage inhaled so sharply his fans cut air in a loud shriek. 

Small objects dangling from long cables clinked from down below as gravity untwisted them. Smokescreen didn’t dare look, but oh Primus, he was tempted to. He just -- and Jazz had -- was this actually happening? This couldn’t be actually happening. This wasn’t real. Except the only way he could tell if it was real or not was if he looked, and he didn’t want to look. He really shouldn’t look.

“’Scuse me, but you don’t wanna see this,” Blaster said as stepped around behind Smokescreen, reaching out to cover the Praxian’s optics with his hands. 

“If you’ll kindly excuse us,” Mirage said in a strangled voice, “my associates and I need to have a **word** with Jazz. We’ll be…borrowing him for a moment.” Something clanged loudly, someone yipped in a high-pitched voice, and there were strange clanking noises as several SpecOps mechs physically dragged their boss away.

Smokescreen stood very still, safely blind behind Blaster’s hands. “This is a joke, right?” he asked carefully. “It’s an extension of what Jazz is pulling on Prowl. He’s doing this on purpose. It’s all been one elaborate prank. Ha-ha. Silly Smokes, falling for it.” It would make a cruel, painful kind of sense. “Please tell me it’s a joke, Blaster.”

“…mech, you know it ain’t.”

“Blaster, he just **dropped** his **cables**.”

“Yeah. Yeah, he did.”

“People don’t **do** that unintentionally!”

“Really? ‘Cause I’m lookin’ at some fairly convincing evidence saying he didn’t mean to do that.” There were strange ripping noises coming from off in the direction SpecOps had swarmed, along with a lot of agitated motion from the crowd. Smokescreen couldn’t _quite_ hear what the whispered conversations around him were saying. “Once Mirage’s done readin’ him the riot act, he might not be **able** to do it, mean to or not. Nuh-uh! Noooo, you don’t wanna see what they’re doing.” Blaster’s hands tightened. The Praxian eventually stopped trying to peek, and he continued talking. “Let’s just say Jazz isn’t gonna be getting his cables out for a good long while, no matter whatcha do.”

“Blasterrrrrr.”

“You’ll see.”

“Blaster!”

“Trust me, okay? Mirage’s got this covered.” A resounding slap echoed across the courtyard, followed by a small cheer from the crowd. “I got no idea if any of us have any honor left to defend, m’mech, but I do know you got an entire division out to defend yours. Well done, Smokes.”

“Really don’t know if that makes me feel any better.” Smokescreen frowned, twitching his doors to thwap his friend’s arms. Now he kind of wanted to see. 

“It should. Mmmmkay, think they’re about done. You ready?”

He definitely didn’t feel any better. “Please, please just tell me he’s not running around exposing himself to innocent Praxians anymore.”

Blaster laughed and took his hands away, and Smokescreen gulped as he came face-to-face with Jazz. A very ashamed-looking Jazz. Okay, he felt a little better.

This was a Jazz mortified to exist. This was a Jazz who’d dropped his cables in front of most of his subordinates and half an outpost. This was a Jazz extremely aware of that fact, possibly due to the livid noblemech standing at his back.

This was a Jazz tightly covered hood to thigh in what appeared to be duct tape. It was a fair bet that was also due to Mirage.

The only thing Smokescreen could think to say was, “Did…he put your..? Um, before..?”

Jazz winced, twiddling his thumbs. “No.”

“Cold, mech,” Blaster said over their heads at Mirage.

“He deserves worse,” Mirage said in a voice of absolute arctic temperature. Frost should have limned Jazz’s helm, just from that voice. 

Jazz winced lower and stared at the ground, ashamed to exist. He was going to wince far, far more when prying himself out of the layers of tape binding his cables out of sight. Duct tape was not kind to connector prongs. Things were going to get pulled out. Smokescreen almost felt sorry for him.

Mirage skewered the Praxian with a glare warning him against showing a morsel of mercy. “I will not tolerate this kind of behavior, and neither should you.”

“Ice cold,” Blaster murmured. “The Towers School of Hard Knocks.”

Smokescreen heaved a sigh. “I suppose we had to start somewhere.”

**[* * * * *]**


	9. Pt. 9

**Title:** Third Wheel  
 **Warning:** This inhabits a weird area where it’s a humor fic, but people sensitive to misunderstandings causing serious discomfort probably shouldn’t read.  
 **Rating:** PG  
 **Continuity:** G1  
 **Characters:** Smokescreen, Bluestreak, Perceptor, Mirage, Cliffjumper  
 **Disclaimer:** The theatre doesn’t own the script or actors, nor does it make a profit from the play.  
 **Motivation (Prompt):** People on Tumblr were talking about ‘bots dribbling on themselves while fantasizing about voluptuous bumpers. It had to be written.

**[* * * * *]**  
 **Part Nine**   
**[* * * * *]**

 

Six people at the table, and it was safe to say only two of them had any idea what was being said.

“Yeah, air flow what way the wind’s blowing affects the rate of speed for bullets when I’m lining up a shot is pretty important, yet more important to your purposes but any sniper knows how to work with that would likely be cross-current air flow in terms of targeting. I don’t even really think about it anymore your skill at hitting moving targets continues to amaze, I mean I guess I do but it’s not a big deal of course, it’s usually a bigger deal who’s shooting back at me, you know? I would dearly love to study your technique, you know, at some future point, right? If I might be permitted to impose on your practice time, you’re pretty good with a rifle, too. You claim not to consciously determine vector or distance, I’ve seen you while aiming, relying on instinct, yet instinct is generally reliant upon underlying subroutines running beneath conscious level of thought. I hypothesize we should do a few rounds at the shooting range together, the brief period of concentration before firing just to practice, however short, overclocks your processors in an intense rush of okay so I’d really just like to shoot back-to-back information intake and calculation with you because you’ve got a really nice back and hips and the snap shots you make are faster but does your scope work as a targeting scope?”

Optics locked on the show, Smokescreen shoveled additives into his mouth without tasting them. Beside him, Bumblebee wore the fascinated look of a code-breaker learning on the job. Perceptor and Bluestreak talked, words crossing in some sort of complicated interconnection of conversations that wove a pattern only they seemed to understand. Translation skills honed by war had nothing on grasping their peculiar communication code. Hard as the handful of observers at the table concentrated, none of them could separate the babbled hash of words. Quickly flowing topics merged and split, and for the sake of his aching head, Smokescreen had labeled it a bizarre, indecipherable background soundtrack for the meal instead of something he could interpret.

Anybody capable of cracking this code was up for a promotion to communication specialist, in Smokescreen’s books. 

Smokescreen’s books didn’t have good odds for anyone making that promotion today. Nobody understood.

Well, no, that wasn’t true. It was fairly clear both speakers knew what they were talking about. From the sheer enthusiasm of Perceptor’s hand gestures -- Mirage had rescued the nearest ration cubes preemptively, neatly stacking the trays at the end of the table far out of knocked-flying range -- and the constant fluttering twitch of Bluestreak’s doors -- Hound bravely fended off the bap-bap-bapping buffeting of blunt objects to the back of his head; sitting behind a Praxian was a contact sport -- the two excitable mechs were thoroughly enjoying talking to, through, around, and over one another.

“Can someone else use it? I want to try using it to take no less calculated than shots taken after longer periods where you take into account distance, not that I think it’ll ever be necessary but just in case is always a great excuse to get my hands on intervening elements such as atmospheric composition and weather, and somebody I like and I really like you, is that weird? Don’t take anticipated motion of the target. What I would like to do is monitor that the wrong way, it’s just that nobody ever really listens to me when I talk. I know I talk a lot, but it’s your processors for activity during a series about concentrating below the level of conscious thought, like you said, I really, really don’t want to have to think of controlled tests about stuff on the shooting range I’d rather talk to fill up my head with varying environment and timing words, so I could listen to you all day even if I don’t understand everything you say.”

Wait. Wait, what? Smokescreen’s own doors went back and up, and his optics brightened. The mood of Bluestreak’s words came through, if not all the content, and holy hood ornaments! When had Bluestreak started crushing on Perceptor? That was…rather sweet, actually.

The unfortunate soldier behind him warded off the attack of doors, as per usual. The near-reverence in how they were handled was new, but Smokescreen had confidence the outpost would be back to greedily groping his doors at the slightest chance soon enough. For now, he made a vague apologetic noise over his shoulder as shrugged them out of face-smacking range. Three pairs of hands patted forgiveness, aaaaaaand there was the sneaky tweak to a handle he’d been waiting for.

It felt absurdly nice to be treated normally. Smokescreen hid an embarrassed grin.

Meanwhile, Perceptor shut up. The scientist could be astonishingly quick on the uptake when he was watching dots connect in a petri dish, but it took him longer to hear what exactly had been said to him. Either that, or he’d made his own proposal and was waiting for a response. To be honest, Smokescreen couldn’t tell who had said what, only that the look of muted anticipation on the scientist’s normally animated face opened up many, many options for how this little scenario could play out.

He looked between sniper and scientist, extremely interested. Well, then. He put his money on Bluestreak making the first move. Sweet didn’t mean inexperienced or shy.

Bluestreak, as per usual, kept talking. “But you stop and explain things when I ask so that’s even better than just listening or talking, we have actual conversations. Don’t you think so?” He stopped, blinking at the silence where he expected a response. Belated realization dawned. “Oh. I’m sorry. Did you say something?”

Bemused Autobots stared at him from every side. Bumblebee lit up, a light bulb all but going off above his helm as he finally cracked whatever hyperactive motormouth code scientist and sniper had been talking in. Mirage had paused with his ration cube raised halfway to his mouth, one optic ridge raised in elegant inquiry to pretty much everything that had been said and done at this table since he sat down. Peaceful meals were pure myth, so far as he could tell. 

Beside him, one of the mythbreakers himself frowned, spoon sticking out of the corner of his mouth. Puzzled anger had Cliffjumper stewing. He didn’t understand what was going on, therefore he disliked it, but disliking _Bluestreak_ was just plain wrong. It was a morale quandary. He frowned some more as he tried to parse the problem in his mind. 

Smokescreen simply crunched the last ore nugget and took a swig of energon to wash it down. Ambulon had cowed him into eating everything the quartermaster gave him, even if he didn’t recognize half of what ended up on his tray. Baffling and fascinating as this exchange was, watching it wouldn’t stop him from obeying orders from Medical. It helped, really. This was dinner theatre. Good show. Sitting on the sidelines watching things unfold was great fun. He’d missed having someone else’s relationship drama being the center of attention. 

“I…I suppose what I said is that I agree,” Perceptor said, greatly taken aback. Wonder filled his optics, and he stared at Bluestreak as if seeing him for the first time.

Bluestreak lit up like Wheeljack’s lab. “Really?”

“There is a level of connection between the two of us, I believe,” the scientist said, optics dropping to his tray. The utensils were arranged parallel to the edge of the tray, cube squared just so, but he made an unnecessary adjustment to one of the bowls of supplements to avoid looking at the bright, hopeful grin turned on him. “Although I find it difficult to believe you hold such a high opinion of a glorified lab technician.” 

Modesty, thy name was Perceptor, most intelligent scientist anyone had ever heard of. Everyone in audio shot contributed a disparaging _’pfffft’_ noise. 

He looked up to sweep a quelling look around the messhall to shush them. “I am hardly of use out in the field compared to you. Target practice with me would accomplish little of value in the long run, given my position far from the front.”

“Aw, don’t be like that! I’m really interested in your position, up front or behind.” Bluestreak beamed. “We could accomplish all kinds of stuff together!”

_Hoooooorrrrrrgggnk._

That sound? That was the sound of fourteen Autobots choking at once.

Mirage contemplated at his ration cube with all the self-satisfaction of a wise mech reflecting on his life choices. Unlike the people around him, he’d ceased drinking when it became clear something was up. He’d known better. Spittakes were terribly undignified. 

Putting the cube down, he gently patted Cliffjumper on the back to encourage whatever chunk of mineral was stuck in a vent shaft to come out. “Energon is for fuel tanks, not ventilation systems,” the former Towers mech reminded everyone in that insufferable know-it-all mannerism he fell back on when he knew they couldn’t smack him for it. 

Not that Cliffjumper didn’t try, but the violent coughing fit kept his flailing contained. He hunched forward over the table, fingers clawed at nothing as his engine spluttered. There was a sprayed fan of energon spread across the table in front of him. Bumblebee wiped at the spatters on his chestplate as he slid slowly out of sight under the table, laughing so hard he hiccupped.

Smokescreen paused for a half a second, blinked, and continued chewing. When Bumblebee’s howling died down to ugly wheezing, he swallowed and said, “Bluestreak, be nice. Perceptor’s in a committed relationship. With science.” 

Perceptor mustered a faint sound of protest, or maybe agreement. It was a very conflicted sound. It spoke of serious thoughts of cheating on the One True Love of his life.

The Praxian across the table from them giggled. “I’m not looking for commitment. I’m just inviting him over to **study**.” Leaning an elbow on the table, he ran his thumb along the lower edge of his chevron while giving an outrageously overdone leer. 

People cracked the frag up. There was just something about Bluestreak -- naïve, friendly Bluestreak --delivering that line in that tone. It struck everyone as the funniest thing since Optimus Prime had won the outpost’s impromptu tug-o’-war contest. It was the waggled optic ridge, perhaps. 

Cliffjumper horked up part of his air filter downshifting from coughing to laughing without pause. Mirage facepalmed. Hound leaned off the bench, reaching back to thump his fist between Bluestreak’s doors. The messhall dissolved into a dozen repetitions, everyone turning to their neighbor to try out the line, and trays clattered as people banged on the tables. 

“Study! For science!” Wheeljack shouted from two tables over, finger pointed straight in the air.

“ **Boom** shakalaka!”

“Oh dear,” Perceptor said. He could see what Warpath was doing to go with the sound effects. “I sincerely doubt anyone is **that** committed to the advancement of scientific knowledge.”

It was ridiculous, utterly ridiculous. Smokescreen shook his head, smiling. 

Pleased, doors perked high, Bluestreak wriggled happily as he scrunched up on the bench. He almost vibrated with contained energy. He had one of those infectious grins, the delighted sort that invited people to laugh with him instead of at him, and right now it beamed at everyone in the messhall. 

The younger mech’s bubbly, upbeat personality amazed Smokescreen sometimes, especially knowing what he did about the trauma the poor guy had endured. In that context, it was hard to discourage what happiness Bluestreak found in the midst of war. “Alright, one ‘study break,’” Smokescreen said indulgently, “but only if you’re not on duty. You know what a hardaft Ironhide is.”

Guileless blue optics went comically wide. “Nooooooo, not getting caught canoodling on duty! I don’t want monitor duty! I’m awful at sitting alone in small rooms staring at monitors. I lose all sense of time and start spinning around on the chairs, and Red Alert doesn’t have a sense of humor.”

“Ahem,” the messhall’s speakers said, sounding remarkably humorless.

Which didn’t deter Bluestreak, who pointed at the nearest speaker as proof. “See? See? He doesn’t even listen when I’m talking unless I say his keywords, but he gets mad at me if I say the keywords to make sure he’s listening. Did you know he made me a list of banned words for the camps? I wasn’t allowed to say alert, alarm, escape, missing, suspicious -- “

“Bluestreak,” the speakers growled, promising dire consequences.

Bumblebee howled laughter under the table. Perceptor’s processors seemed to have screeched to an abrupt halt, and he stared at Smokescreen. Smokescreen cocked his head in blatant hint at his fellow Praxian, who was currently dazzling the messhall security camera with an innocent smile. 

“Yes?”

An engine snarled the outpost’s Security Director’s lack of appreciation for Bluestreak’s brand of entertainment. “Go play somewhere else.”

“’kay.” Doors waved up and down, going through their full extension. Bluestreak stood at the same time, stretching his arms above his head until wrists and shoulder joints popped. Cables unkinked, he turned to shout across the messhall at Ironhide, “Commander! Red Alert says I gotta go! Is it okay if I go to the shooting range? I’ve been there before and you never had a problem, but it’s nice when people ask if they’re allowed to go places in a place they’re not stationed, and technically I’m just here for a meeting so I’m not sure if anything around here’s actually off-limits to me even though I have security clearance for most everywhere, but most everywhere isn’t everywhere so it’s better to ask if I can go somewhere. Not the barracks or anything, I wouldn’t go there unless I was invited, but I was hoping for a quick tour later if you know what I mean?” He flashed his hopeful, infectious grin at the outpost commander.

Perceptor blinked at Bluestreak, then Smokescreen. Had that been..?

Smokescreen nodded. Yep, it had. Invitation made, mech.

Ironhide chuckled. “Sure, Blue. You have fun. Meeting’s not for three hours. Show up on time, y’hear?” He had the same indulgent look on his face that Smokescreen wore. There was just something about Bluestreak that brought out the protective side in mechs. There wasn’t an Autobot in the messhall that didn’t take special care to cover their favorite sniper’s back when slag hit the fan. The only one not looking at him fondly right this moment was Cliffjumper, and that was directly the fault of an air filter out of alignment.

Bouncing on his heels, Bluestreak nodded eagerly. “Yeah! I’ll be there!” He turned back to the table to grab the sniper rifle he toted around like a security blanket. It was against outpost regulations to carry a loaded weapon past a certain caliber indoors, but nobody said anything. He had a Medical pass due to his trauma-based dependency issues. Plus, he’d cleared every gun safety certification course ever thrown at him.

It showed. Rifle hoisted to his hip, muzzle pointed at the ceiling, he became a different mech. The smile stayed the same. The perky doors bobbed and waved with just as much boundless energy. It was simply a solid, psychological _click_ in onlookers’ minds. An expert slotted into his element, and they _saw_.

Everyone looking at him inhaled deeply as the flirty pop of his hips took on a _whole_ different meaning. Funny flipped end-over-end into dead sexy, his smile cast in a new light, one of him being able to go through with everything he’d cheerfully promised. The faction’s most competent sharpshooter skipped toward the messhall door, and he had everyone’s undivided attention. Holding his rifle propped on his hip popped his chest out, just a bit, but it was enough. There were enough optics locked on his clever, ever-steady hands to cover them in glints of reflected blue.

Vents closed. Hands went slack. Energon dribbled from open mouths. 

Trailbreaker walked into a wall. _Ker-thump_.

Smokescreen threw his head back to laugh. Primus, watching Praxian-lust make people lose their slag never got old. “Go get ‘em!” he said, reaching over to clap a hand on Perceptor’s shoulder. “Take him on that tour! Study break. Science!”

Perceptor tore his optics away from Bluestreak’s departure with some difficulty. “It isn’t science we shall be doing. Excuse me, I seem to have a partner waiting for my company,” he said to the table at large, as polite and composed a mech that had ever been. 

Nobody was listening. Smokescreen doubted anybody had the brainpower left to notice him quickly following in Bluestreak’s wake. 

“I don’t know why you guys say I set this stuff up. I wasn’t anywhere near the building plan when the architect put the shooting range beside the labs,” Smokescreen said to nobody in particular before raising his voice. “Commander, sir? With all due respect, please close your mouth.” Ironhide struggled to reel his jaw shut as Smokescreen reached across the table to briskly smack Cliffjumper upside the head. “Breath.”

The feisty red minibot inhaled at long last, letting it out in a heavy, “Nnnnnngh.” He elbowed the slender aristocrat sitting in stark contrast beside him. “You’re not fooling anybody.”

Mirage’s fans ran silent, but he dumped heat like a smelter at the moment. “My apologies. He is the consummate image of a sniper.”

“Consu-what? I just like how he handles that gun.”

“Indeed.”

Cracking his knuckle joints, Cliffjumper casually stood up. Too casually. At some point, trying to look casual overdid it and came off as the complete opposite, and he’d reached that point. “Think I should mosey down to the range and test out some heavy-duty artillery myself.”

As per usual, Mirage turned standing up into a dance of elegance and grace. Lesser mortals squinted suspiciously at the production, wondering who he was putting on a show for. “I believe I shall accompany you. It’s always a pleasure to watch you work. Your enthusiasm is,” he paused artfully, “inspiring.”

That explained who the show was for, anyway. Cliffjumper might have gotten his circuits heated over a large gun and bigger bumper, but his optics were firmly riveted to Mirage’s aft as the noblemech swayed out of the messhall ahead of him.

Hound had turned to watch them leave, and he shook his head as he turned back to look at Smokescreen. “They’re not going to make it to the firing range,” he said with a knowing look. 

Smokescreen shared it. “Nope.” The Praxian looked around at the table of abandoned trays and sighed. Good thing he didn’t mind cleaning up after people.

Especially since they’d left him the perfect opening for a new betting pool. “Twenty shanix says Brainstorm tries to get under Bluestreak’s hood next!”

“I’ll take that action!” someone whooped from across the hall.

Smokescreen snagged Mirage’s half-emptied cube to sip as he sauntered over to cement the deal. 

Trailbreaker stood up just in time to get an optic full of him strolling past, took one step, and tripped over the nearest bench. _Ker-thump._

“You’re doing that on purpose, ya glitch!” he yelled from the floor, and sniggers swept the messhall. 

Smokescreen grinned and added a pop to his walk, just to rub it in.   
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 **[* * * * *]**  
 _If you want to know what Bluestreak and Perceptor were saying:_

 

“Air flow affects the rate of speed for bullets, yet more important to your purposes would likely be cross-current air flow in terms of targeting. Your skill at hitting moving targets continues to amaze, of course. I would dearly love to study your technique at some future point if I might be permitted to impose on your practice time. You claim not to consciously determine vector or distance while aiming, relying on instinct, yet instinct is generally reliant upon underlying subroutines running beneath conscious level of thought. I hypothesize the brief period of concentration before firing, however short, overclocks your processors in an intense rush of information intake and calculation. The snap shots you make are faster but no less calculated than shots taken after longer periods where you take into account distance, intervening elements such as atmospheric composition and weather, and anticipated motion of the target. What I would like to do is monitor your processors for activity during a series of controlled tests on the shooting range varying environment and timing.”

“Yeah, what way the wind’s blowing when I’m lining up a shot is pretty important, but any sniper knows how to work with that. I don’t even really think about it anymore, I mean I guess I do but it’s not a big deal, it’s usually a bigger deal who’s shooting back at me, you know? You know, right? You’re pretty good with a rifle, too, I’ve seen you. We should do a few rounds at the shooting range together, just to practice, okay so I’d really just like to shoot back-to-back with you because you’ve got a really nice back and hips and does your scope work as a targeting scope? Can someone else use it? I want to try using it to take aim, not that I think it’ll ever be necessary but just in case is always a great excuse to get my hands on somebody I like and I really like you, is that weird? Don’t take that the wrong way, it’s just that nobody ever really listens to me when I talk. I know I talk a lot, but it’s about concentrating below the level of conscious thought, like you said, I really, really don’t want to have to think about stuff. I’d rather talk to fill up my head with words, so I could listen to you all day even if I don’t understand everything you say, but you stop and explain things when I ask so that’s even better than just listening or talking, we have actual conversations.”

 

**[* * * * *]**


	10. Pt. 10

**Title:** Third Wheel  
 **Warning:** This inhabits a weird area where it’s a humor fic, but people sensitive to misunderstandings causing serious discomfort probably shouldn’t read.  
 **Rating:** PG  
 **Continuity:** G1  
 **Characters:** Smokescreen, Hound, Mirage, Bumblebee, Jazz, Blaster.  
 **Disclaimer:** The theatre doesn’t own the script or actors, nor does it make a profit from the play.  
 **Motivation (Prompt):** People on Tumblr were talking about ‘bots dribbling on themselves while fantasizing about voluptuous bumpers. It had to be written.

**[* * * * *]**  
 **Part Ten**   
**[* * * * *]**

 

“I think we broke him.”

Smokescreen risked nudging Jazz with his elbow. “Hello? You in there?”

Bumblebee made no move to defend his boss from the prodding. “Yeah, you broke him,” he said when Hound turned to him for a second opinion. “Just leave him. It’s not like it’s a big secret what his favorite part is. We aaaaaall know what it is.” He grinned at Smokescreen, who heaved a sigh. The bumper. It was always the bumper. “But here’s my guess as to what Prowl might like about him, tit for tat and all that.” He put his elbows on the table, and everyone sitting around it leaned in to hear. “The doors.”

It took half a second to sink in, and then the whole table eyed Jazz, giving due consideration to the idea. Heads cocked to the side as they evaluated his doors as if seeing them for the first time. 

“I can see it.”

“Makes sense.”

“They’re so mobile.”

“Now that you point it out…”

“Kind of a shame he’s so fixated,” somebody said from the table behind them, and everybody nodded again. 

Bumblebee agreed while making a rueful face speaking of his own personal mourning of that particular fact. “He’s practically monogamous. Unless it’s a mission, mechs, you can’t get your hands on those doors.” He propped his cheek on his hand, regarding Jazz. “But see what I mean? Once you really take a look at him, it’s the doors.”

“Or the visor,” Smokescreen pointed out.

“Mmhm, the visor’s nice,” Hound agreed. He squinted at Jazz. “But the door’s you can play with. They’re springy.” He made flappy hand motions. “They’re more flexible on the hinges than yours.”

Smokescreen inched away from the gestures, doors tucking down. “Don’t even try that with my doors. Ouch.”

Bumblebee snickered suddenly. “He’s really out of it.” Pushing off his hand, he snapped his fingers in front of Jazz’s visor. “Helloooo, are you in there? Look at that. Nobody home.” 

“How’re you **bam** gonna snap him outta **ratatat** it?”

“Hmm.” The yellow minibot gave it some thought. After a second, he concluded, “Let’s talk about Prowl’s kinks.”

Jazz made a little noise, a mewling meep somewhere deep in his throat, and an oddly deep _whoooooonk_ sound filled the air. The table flinched back, looking around for the source of the noise, but Bumblebee mimed a honk-honk gesture with the heel of his hand. Ohhh. Okay, Jazz’s horn went off when he got excited. That was kind of cute. People made an effort to cover their grins. 

He didn’t notice. His visor shaded deeper yet into a lost, lustful, dusky hue staring into, presumably, some sort of fantasy involving Prowl and kinks. 

“Totally lost to the world,” Smokescreen concluded after he and Bumblebee waved their hands in front of his face. No reaction.

“Well, **that** didn’t work,” Hound said.

“Just as well. My imagination falls kind of short on what knots Prowl’s cables, anyway,” Trailbreaker said. “I feel like we’d end up discussing his extra troops kink. Reinforcements fetish! Energon surplus hot-n-bothered!” He raised his cube. “Charged up on supply requisition forms filed in triplicate.”

Smokescreen couldn’t help but laugh. To him, it sounded more like something that would get Ultra Magnus off. “Maybe he likes the color blue,” he suggested. Everybody snickered at that, more than the comment deserved, and he glanced around curiously. “What? What am I missing this time?”

Hound clapped a hand on his shoulder, smiling broadly. “We’ve gotta show you some older pics of Jazz. He didn’t pick up the red highlights ‘til after the day he met Prowl, and if you check the shades…”

“Exact color match?”

“You got it. He’s convinced it’s Prowl’s favorite color, just ‘cause it’s the only real color he’s got on him.” 

Smokescreen pulled his head back to give Hound a skeptical look. “So he thinks it’ll make Prowl, what, like him more?”

“Yeah, we know, it’s a screws-loose idea, but it’s what he did.” Hound shook his head. “Talk about desperate.”

Bumblebee pointed a spoon at Smokescreen in question. “Wait, we didn’t tell you about that? You have to hear about that. You haven’t heard anything until we tell you the grand tale of how Jazz got a paint sample from Prowl so he could match colors.”

Mirage contributed a delicate snort of contempt. “Ah, yes. A ‘sample.’ Stealing his paint shade, you mean. Outright asking would have been much less comparable to stalking, creepy as it might have been for a mech Prowl had only just met to ask for his paint formula. I’m only glad illegally opening someone’s medical file for a paint shade was ridiculous enough even he,” he jerked his chin at Jazz, “automatically discarded the idea.”

“It ended up being just as stupid in the end,” Bumblebee said. “It turned into a stupid-aft mission that got way out of control, and it’s how everybody found out our boss was helm-over-wheels for the new TacHead. Lemme tell you,” he turned back to Smokescreen, “there isn’t anything like getting caught out by Optimus Prime himself on a mission you don’t even know the exact final goal for.”

Smokescreen stared in disbelief. “The Prime caught you?”

“Oh, he caught us. Caught three of us and turned two of us over to Ironhide for a formal reprimand for,” Mirage straightened up and put on a pompous voice, “over-enthusiasm in a training exercise.” He dropped the act, expression souring. “We were unaware it was classified as a training exercise. Nothing in our briefing indicated anything other than a real mission until we were ordered to stand down, the training was complete. It was, I might add, a transparent ret-canoned excuse for why we were sent in fully armed and ready to disable any mech unfortunate to stumble over us, Autobot or not. The Prime was unamused, but he couldn’t call the Head of Special Operations out for lying when there was no proof either way. Thus we received a reprimand for taking a training mission too far.”

Smokescreen kept staring. He switched his gaze to other, non-SpecialOps mechs, hoping they’d tell him Mirage and Bumblebee were pulling his leg, but no. Everybody was nodding along with the tale. “It got that far out of control?” he asked at last.

“We set off alarms in the main base, riled up Red Alert but good, and got shot by our own side.” Bumblebee smiled almost wearily. “And we didn’t even know what we were sent to retrieve until Jazz finally got back.”

“He was the one Optimus Prime detained,” Mirage added. “He’s never told us the details of the lecture, but there was a distinct scent of singed upholstery about him when he came back.” He and Bumblebee exchanged satisfied looks. Apparently they felt a blistering dressing-down from Optimus Prime had been justified. 

“Wait, so how -- I’m almost afraid to ask, but I have to know.” Smokescreen opened his hands on the table, giving up on any hope of sanity. “How did he get the paint sample to match, if you guys failed the mission?”

Long-Suffering Expression #4, one of many in Mirage’s repertoire, put in an appearance. It didn’t bode well for how this story ended. Bumblebee pressed his lips together. The corners twitched wildly. He looked up at the ceiling as if searching for self-control. Nobody else bothered to rein in their grins.

Smokescreen looked between the two agents, optics wide. Now he was definitely afraid.

“Right,” Bumblebee said after wrestling down the urge to giggle. He reset his vocalizer and dragged his optics back to Smokescreen. A snort-giggle immediately escaped, freed by the Praxian’s scandalized wonder, and all that hard-won control was lost. “I can’t do it! Ahahaha!”

Mirage sighed. Mirage could win awards in how much exasperation he packed into a single sigh. The noblemech straightened up into a formal pose as though he were about to deliver a report. The crisp recitation made it that much more absurd.

“In the long and sordid history of Lieutenant Jazz making a fool of himself, let it be known that the first instance we can say for certain he didn’t mean to do so occurred upon emerging, thoroughly chastened, from the Prime’s office, whereupon he was confronted by the new Head of Strategic Planning. During said confrontation, witnesses testify to the sheer amount of energy used to convey what a supreme joke Jazz found flirting with Prowl to be, therein marking the start of a harmful legacy of those who don’t know any better seeing his attempted courtship as nothing more than a show put on for their amusement. The climax of this confrontation, in a manner of speaking, was when our klutz of a boss tripped over his tongue and literally fell headfirst into the prominent bumper he was fixated upon. While this in and of itself earned him nothing but black-and-white paint transfers and Prowl’s utmost disdain, the final crash to the floor after face met bumper resulted in him chipping a tooth on one of the few decals besides Prowl’s chevron which is the desired shade of red. It is, you may or may not have noticed, as you are not obsessed with everything Prowl, a small arrow decal on his -- “

By now, Smokescreen had both hands clamped over his mouth to keep his horrified laughter muffled. “I’ve noticed,” he squeaked.

Mirage coughed discreetly into his fist, optics flashing off to the side in sympathetic embarrassment for Smokescreen’s mortification. “Yes. Well. Wheeljack scraped a paint sample out of Jazz’s front teeth.”

“You could say Jazz likes it rough,” Bumblebee giggled. “Rough and in the mouth. That’s a kink, right?”

Mirage smacked him upside the helm the same way he did Cliffjumper sometimes. “That’s enough of that.”

“Ow! Ow, cut it out!” Bumblebee hid his head under his arms, sniggering. It was hard to hear through the table and arms in the way, but Smokescreen thought the yellow minibot said, “Prowl’s had enough of that!”

Bringing to mind a new question. “What did Prowl do?”

Bumblebee peeked over his arms, grinning wickedly. “He called for a medic.”

“I assume he believed Jazz had suffered some sort of malfunction,” Mirage said. He sounded entirely resigned to the ridiculousness. His boss had pulled off too many crazy stunts for him to get upset over it anymore.

“Good aftercare,” Bumblebee approved, however, and Mirage’s optics lit up in total indignation, proving modesty wasn’t dead in his spark yet.

“Bumblebee!”

The SpecOps mechs took off across the messhall in a tangle of yellow and blue, one laughing hysterically and the other spitting like an offended felinoid. Nobody took much notice. Blaster took the opportunity to steal Bumblebee’s seat, in fact. Jazz continued to tune out the rest of the galaxy in favor of a dreamworld full of Prowl, so he didn’t protest.

He probably should have, as the first thing Blaster did was prop his elbows on the table and grin at Smokescreen. “I hear we’re tradin’ tales of the Jazzmeister’s many fails.”

“Is that what you heard? I didn’t hear that.” The Praxian’s resolution to not prolong the ludicrous storytime lasted about two seconds. “Alright, spill it.”

“Didja hear about the flat tires?”

The table became a scene of wide grins and anticipation. Smokescreen took a look around. It was a little scary. “How do you guys know all these stories and I’m just hearing them for the first time? I’ve been here **years**. Why am I only just hearing about this stuff?”

“Mech, this happened like a month ago.”

“Oh.” During his depressive phase. No wonder he hadn’t heard about it. People were still filling him in on the Decepticon attack he’d _slept through_. He’d known he was exhausted, but Ambulon insisted he hadn’t sedated him. He’d simply slept right through the call to arms, tucked safely in the medbay and forgotten until Wheeljack rousted him off the repair slab in favor of someone missing a leg.

Smokescreen rubbed at the base of his chevron. “Right. No, I didn’t hear about the flat tires.” Dropping his hand, he looked at Jazz. Nope, still out of it. On with the stories of humiliating but true antics. He cocked his head at Blaster. “Hit me, dealer.”

Blaster laughed. “It ain’t that bad! I was in the comm. room the day Jazz here scraped up the gears to say something to Prowler ‘bout you -- “

A hand slapped over Blaster’s mouth.

“Awww, c’mon!” the comm. specialist said from behind it. 

Jazz slowly turned his head, visor narrowed. “No.”

“You said it was off the record! Anything an officer says to another officer off the record’s back in public domain,” Blaster protested. The non-commissioned Autobots at the table blinked, and he spun his fans in exasperation. “On the record’s classified, and my records are sealed on that ‘less they’re ordered open, but ‘off the record’ is basically ‘this isn’t official,’ you dig? If it ain’t official business, it’s personal, and personal scrap said in front of me’s fair game for gossip.”

Jazz glared harder. 

“It’s true and you know it, mech.”

Narrowed blue glass spat peeved sparks, it compressed so far. Jazz pressed his mouth into a thin line of disapproval before abruptly opening in a _t-ha_ sigh letting it go. “Fine. Then I’m **asking** you not t’go spreadin’ that around.”

Blaster squinted at him. “Uh…I mean, fine. I’ll respect that, but,” he glanced at their audience, “can I ask why? You didn’t say nothing that can’t be repeated, **I** don’t think, and it did kind of win you an award.”

“Wait, you won an award?” Smokescreen stared at Jazz. “What award did you win? How did I miss this? Was there a ceremony?”

Trepidation suddenly filled Jazz’s visor. His hand dropped from Blaster’s mouth, and he darted a look around the table in search of backup. “Um.”

Mirage and Bumblebee to the rescue! “I **said** we’d get him an award if he managed a whole conversation with Prowl without screwing up,” Bumblebee said cheerfully as he draped himself on their boss’ shoulder.

“There was a short ceremony. Invitation only event,” Mirage said as he came to stand behind Jazz’s other shoulder. “Quite classy.”

The two Special Ops mechs smiled sweetly. Their boss seemed trapped between them. The look on his face defied description.

Smokescreen looked between the three of them. “Was this a division effort?”

“One might say that.”

“Everyone contributed!”

Ah, so the look on Jazz’s face was _trauma_. That explained more than it didn’t. “Too bad I missed it,” Smokescreen said tactfully.

“You can see the award later. It’s displayed on his office wall,” Bumblebee informed him. “Wheeljack gave us the glue.”

Jazz muttered something that sounded like, “So he’s the fragger to blame.”

Mirage swooped down. “What was that?”

Jazz eyed him sidelong. “I asked if he made th’ frame.”

“He did. A study construction, don’t you agree?”

“That’s one way of puttin’ it.” Jazz didn’t seem entirely happy with how it’d been put.

Hound leaned in close to Smokescreen to whisper, “They’ve been tweaking him on this the whole month. So far he hasn’t figured out how to pry it loose. I think they want to see how long it takes him to figure out Wheeljack built it **into** the wall.”

“That’s evil,” Smokescreen whispered back. “Is there a betting pool set up?”

“Yup.”

“Count me in.”

“I still don’t get why you don’t want me telling people about what you said. It was kinda cool, mech.” Turning his hands up in a shrug, Blaster sat back on the bench. “I won’t if you don’t want me to, but I’d think you’d **want** everybody here to know you can manage to talk to Prowler when you gotta.”

Jazz ducked his head and mumbled something.

Mirage and Bumblebee recoiled as if they’d been stung, but Blaster’s expression softened immediately. “Aww. Aww, mech. Mech, come see me later, I’ll play it back for you. It’s perfectly okay, Jazzerton.” He patted his friend’s shoulder. “Some people can’t record under stress, it’s just how they -- “

“Frag that,” Bumblebee interrupted.

Mirage frowned. “It doesn’t count if he can’t remember the conversation.”

“We’re taking the award back,” they finished together. The two agents spun on their heels and stormed toward the messhall exit.

Jazz all but fell off the bench. “Hey! **Hey** , get back here!” he yelled as he tried to stand up, leap after them, and fight free of the table at the same time. “I earned that award, slaggit! Don’t you dare, don’t you fraggin’ dare y’ half-clocked cogsuckers!” And he was out the door and away, pelting after his rebellious subordinates. 

A rude razzing noise drifted back.

“They’re really enjoying getting back at him over this, aren’t they?” Hound observed as the table gazed after the best of Special Operations. Nobody had stopped eating throughout. They just watched with the mild expressions of people used to this brand of chaos. 

“Seems **blammo** so.”

“So what’s this about flat tires?” Smokescreen asked, turning back to Blaster.

“Ahhh, hm. Hold on. Need to edit.” Blaster looked down at the table as his decks whirred, partially visible through the windows in his chest. After a second, he looked up again. “Take two: Tale of the Tires, the No Details Director’s Cut! Soooo,” he drew out, “without spoilering the conversation they had, picture the two of them face to face, Jazzmeister and Prowler one-on-one time. Jazz’s doing his best to stand tall and proud and get taken seriously, like y’do, but as they’re getting down to the business,” Smokescreen covered his optics with his hand as the table hurr-hurred at the unsubtle innuendo, “Jazz’s tires spring a leak. Two of them.” Smokescreen peeked. Blaster was still grinning like a fiend. “Both his heels. I’m guessing he popped his valve stems.”

Smokescreen’s hand dropped to the table. His head followed right after, and his doors started shaking with silent laughter.

Blaster put his hand flat at about head height and did an imitation of air being let out under pressure. “ _Fweeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeee --_ ”

“Primus, Blaster.”

“ _\-- eeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeee --_ ”

“What the frag?”

“ _\-- eeeee --_ bear with me, here, I’m doing this real-time, it took almost a whole minute, it was **amazing** \-- _eeeeeeeeee_ \-- and their faces, mechs, their **faces** , I couldn’t **make** this slag up _\-- fweeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeee --_ ”

The laughter wasn’t so silent anymore, and Smokescreen looked up through blurred optics to see Blaster bringing his hand down in wicked imitation of Jazz sinking gradually as the black-and-white’s heel tires deflated.

“ _\-- eeeeeeeeeeeeee --_ I kid you not, it’s still going, and Prowl just had this look, like this **look** of ‘Why is this my life?’ and Jazz is playing calm as can be but he’s got that look on where you can tell he’s dying inside, but they’re both just pretending nothing’s happening, waiting for it to end so they can keep talking, but it just **keeps going**. _Fweeeeeeeeeeeeee --_ ”

“And that’s the story of Jazz and the flat tires?” Smokescreen asked after he’d laughed himself to vent hiccups. Blaster grinned, happy to have cracked him up. “Did they ever stop deflating?”

“Oh yeah, sure, and they went right back to talking like nothing had happened, but, heh.” Blaster tipped his head to the side, smiling. “Jazz went to leave, and one tire had more air left in it than the other, so you know how quiet he normally walks, right?” Smokescreen nodded, already snickering, and Blaster nodded. “Every other step, we heard it wheeze. Silence, _fwee_ , silence, _fweee_ , all the way off down the hall.” 

“As far as I’m concerned, he should get an award for just that,” Hound said thoughtfully over Smokescreen collapsing into laughter yet again. 

 

**[* * * * *]**


	11. Pt. 11

**Title:** Third Wheel  
 **Warning:** This inhabits a weird area where it’s a humor fic, but people sensitive to misunderstandings causing serious discomfort probably shouldn’t read.  
 **Rating:** PG  
 **Continuity:** G1  
 **Characters:** Smokescreen, Ironhide, Bumblebee, Jazz.  
 **Disclaimer:** The theatre doesn’t own the script or actors, nor does it make a profit from the play.  
 **Motivation (Prompt):** People on Tumblr were talking about ‘bots dribbling on themselves while fantasizing about voluptuous bumpers. It had to be written.

**[* * * * *]**  
 **Part Eleven**   
**[* * * * *]**

 

“You’re off,” Ironhide announced as he entered the Security room. “My turn.”

Smokescreen looked away from the monitors to stand and salute. “Sir? Where’s Red Alert?” He could count on one hand the mechs the Security Director trusted monitor duty with, and it was down to him and Red Alert this week. Ironhide, while trustworthy in his own way, wasn’t on the roster.

“Runnin’ a patrol. Medical’s on our afts ‘bout exercisin’ our t-cogs again,” his commander said lazily as he returned the salute. “Seems some desk jockey stuck hisself in rootmode from not transforming, so orders are to change it up and get on out.”

“Red Alert has an altmode?” Smokescreen mused on that. “Huh. I’ve never seen it.”

“And that’s why he’s out runnin’ patrol.” Ironhide claimed the abandoned chair. Shooing motions dismissed the bemused Praxian. “Git.”

“Yes sir.” Smokescreen threw him a less formal salute, more of an acknowledgement, and sped out the door. Free! Bwahaha, wonderful, time-wasting, off-duty free time, here he came.

He slowed at the intersection. It wasn’t as though he had big plans. Every couple of days, he did make a point of going down to the lock-up to spend time with Sunstreaker and Sideswipe, but both of them were currently on sentry duty. Post-shift plan remained, as per usual, to head to the messhall. Even if he didn’t want dinner, the messhall was still the first place to check out for what was going on in the outpost. Everyone tended to hang out there. Sometimes people gathered in the barracks, but recharge times cycled depending on duty shifts. Out of courtesy, they stayed out of the bunks so the night shifts could sleep. 

The messhall was the main gathering spot. Other times it could be the firing range or the courtyard, but Smokescreen knew he’d found the right place today when a tray hit him square in the front grille. _k-whaaaaang!_

He nearly fell right back out the door. “ **What** the fr -- “ Flailing his arms, Smokescreen managed a quick grab at the door jamb as he stumbled backward. He hauled himself back upright to glare into the room. Panic dropped into rage without pause. His doors were thoroughly ruffled, his vents were open, his fans were going full bore, and his voice climbed to an indignant shriek reflecting just how fed up he was with this slag. “Are you **kidding** me? What in Primus’ name is wrong with you?!”

The laughter inside cut off cold. Half a dozen pairs of wide optics stared at him, caught red-handed. Oh, frag. A mistake had been made. 

Dead center of the group, an extremely guilty visor paled to an unhealthy baby blue. “Unorthodox weapons practice?” Jazz offered in a tiny voice like a penitent sinner making excuses to an angry god. 

An angry god that revved his engine in fury at the pathetic excuse. His wrath would not be appeased so easily!

He stalked into the room, doors held in a rigid V behind him, and battle-hardened agents hastily scooted out of the blast zone. No pretense at subtlety was made. They were abandoning their commander to his fate. When a Praxian frametype got his back up, he literally got his back up. Smokescreen’s doors made him that much taller than the small black-and-white Head of Special Operations, and he _loomed_ over Jazz as they scurried out of his way. 

Their boss smiled weakly as he was left to face his doom. The stack of trays beside him bore various dents and dings, possibly from impact on the last few people foolish enough to walk through the messhall door before Smokescreen. 

Smokescreen didn’t care who else had fallen to the wicked Frisbee arm of Special Operations. All he cared about was that he’d been assaulted by a tray -- _again_ \-- and this time someone was going to pay. Oh ho, yes, somebody by the name of Jazz was going to pay dearly.

“You’re off-duty?” he demanded as he stopped in front of the table. It was a flimsy shield between them.

“I -- “ Jazz started, but Smokescreen’s glare scorched the lie to smoke and ash before it was fully formed. Ooookay, time to change tactics.

“Yeah, he is,” Bumblebee said, the traitor, and kept talking over Jazz’s immediate denial. “He’s got third shift.” 

“Nothing but stupid hijinks on the schedule today?” Smokescreen pointedly asked everyone in the group but Jazz.

They forked their boss over to his tender mercies without a hint of shame. Survival instinct was strong in Special Ops.

“Schedule’s clear.”

“Empty m’mech.”

“Booked full of nothing.”

“Wide open!”

“All yours.”

“Fat lotta help you are,” Jazz muttered. He drew in a deep vent as Smokescreen rounded the table. In the pious tones of a condemned mech saying his last words, he proclaimed, “I, Jazz, do hereby leave all my worldly possessions to Lord Megatron, to whom I swear undyin’ allegiance as a ‘Con to the core!”

Reflex made every spy, saboteur, and sneak flinch, but Smokescreen didn’t falter. “Red Alert’s out on patrol, fragger,” he said, engine growling, and Jazz’s doors tucked as the black-and-white stared at the messhall security camera woefully. Betrayal! “No emergency alarm will save you now.” 

Only Jazz would consider being thrown in a cell by an overzealous Security Director a way out of the corner he’d been backed into. His visor shifted to the Praxian. “I, uh, just remembered I gotta inspect a wall. Bye!”

“Get back here!” 

Jazz was fast, but Smokescreen had more experience dealing cards. The saboteur dove over the table; Smokescreen’s hand shot out to grab his ankle at the same moment. Plating clattered as it hit the table, brought down, and Jazz twisted in an improbable move his frametype shouldn’t have been capable of. In a real escape, a concealed blade would have probably sliced through Smokescreen’s wrist, and the kick aimed at his face wouldn’t have been slow enough for Smokescreen to duck under. Since this was the messhall and Smokescreen was nominally counted as friendly, Jazz skipped the blades and instead went for the first nonlethal weapon that came to hand. 

Twisting with the kick, he sat up and brought his impromptu weapon down as hard as possible on Smokescreen’s lowered helm.

Without really thinking about what he’d grabbed.

_k-whaaaaang!_

Until, of course, about two seconds after he did it. 

Well, it certainly made Smokescreen let go. 

Jazz let go, too, fingers curling into his palms as he drew back from the seething Praxian. Visor bleached a light blue closer to white, he looked wildly around the messhall for help. It wasn’t coming. His mechs were all gaping at the tray swinging from Smokescreen’s chevron. It’s presence in front of the guy’s face might have been the only thing keeping rage-fueled laser optics from punching holes in Jazz’s face. That didn’t mean Smokescreen wouldn’t soon start throwing punches. Probably also at Jazz’s face, given how his hands balled into fists at his sides.

“…they’re really good weapons in a pinch,” Jazz said. It was as though he couldn’t stop himself.

Off to one side, Bumblebee appeared to be consigning his boss to the slaughter. Goodbye, Jazz, it was nice working together. Unfortunately, it was time to die. 

“I,” Smokescreen said as he pried at the tray impaled on his chevron, “cannot see Jazz at this moment. However, I’m assuming he’s going to be right **here** ,” he stabbed his finger blindly at the table in front of himself, then went back to pulling futilely at the tray, “when I get this **blasted thing off my head!** ”

Scuffling noises promptly began somewhere beyond the barrier of the tray. Smokescreen ignored them in favor of picking at the bit of metal jammed under the base of his chevron. The tray had been brought down on his head with such force the left tip of his chevron had bent, which not only slagging hurt but made getting the thing off an exercise in frustrated, blind fumbling. It was wide enough that he had to strain to get his arms up around it, and he flinched every time he touched the bent tip. 

Bumblebee eventually had to stand on the bench to help him bend his chevron straight again. He knew it was Bumblebee because he could see yellow feet.

“Thank you,” he said, painfully polite. One had to be polite when living in close quarters with so many other people. The little things in life made all the difference.

Bumblebee lifted the tray away. His optics held worry his bright smile didn’t hint at. “My pleasure. We’ll just, um, leave you two alone, okay?”

“That’s so nice of you,” Smokescreen said. “I appreciate that, folks.” He sounded absolutely sincere. He looked completely unamused.

Everyone cleared out of the messhall as if evacuating on the heels of the Bomb Squad. It was the kind of situation where smart mechs ran for cover and worried about picking up the pieces after the explosions stopped. They got it, okay? An unspoken rule of the outpost had been violated in a big way, and everyone was just going to look away while justice was dealt. Balance had to be restored in order to keep life rolling along. The door closed quietly behind Mirage like the world’s quietest death knell. 

Smokescreen nodded once before turning his attention back to the object of his ire. He was Most Displeased. “ **You.** ”

To nobody but Jazz’s surprise, he was seated exactly where expected: right in front of the irate Praxian. A nervous smile greeted Smokescreen. “Hi. Can I apologize, or should I just start bequeathin’ my belongings?”

Smokescreen smiled his best cardshark smile. Slinking forward, he slid between Jazz’s knees and cozied up real close. Intimate close. Close enough to lean in and purr a promise against one audial horn. “I’m going to **destroy** you.” 

A shiver went down Jazz’s back struts. He swallowed hard, sitting very still as Smokescreen exhaled hot air over the sensitive helm protrusion. “Kiiiiinda what I was afraid of. Right, so ‘bout those belongings.” Straightening up slightly, he reset his vocalizer as he looked up at the security camera. “I, Jazz, being sound of mind and bo **dy!** ” His voice screeked high as teeth lightly grazed recessed audio screens. “Scratch that, I ain’t gonna be thinkin’ straight in a minute, here. I, uh, give everything t’ Prowl. He’ll figure out what to do with it.”

“Good choice.” Smokescreen plucked Jazz’s hands from where they hovered midair, unsure whether to push him away or pull him closer. They were studied for a moment, and then he selected a couple fingers to serve his purposes. He gripped them firmly to ensure no escape was possible. 

Apprehensive, Jazz eyed him as he was pulled forward, but his visor went wide when the selected fingers were popped into Smokescreen’s mouth. “Smokes? Smokes, what’re you doin’?”

“Hmmm?” With a slick _schluk_ , the fingers were pulled out, and Smokescreen shifted his grip to separate out another finger. Into his mouth it went. “Mm.”

“This ain’t exactly my kinda thing, Smokes,” Jazz said. Conviction didn’t overflow his words. This wasn’t his thing, that tone told Smokescreen, but he could easily be persuaded into buying in. 

Smokescreen swirled his tongue around the finger in his mouth like it was the end of a connector. A breathy noise mewled out of his victim as he drew back to dart quick little licks at the tip, but Jazz sucked a deep in-vent while Smokescreen chose the next finger. Control. This was all about control. All sorts of things were available for purchase if he could just keep control for once. He leaned forward when the Praxian nibbled on his knuckles, and Smokescreen made a small noise of his own as lips softly kissed the sore crease where his chevron had been bent. 

“There, right there,” Smokescreen said. Shutting off his optics, he turned his head enough to press Jazz’s forefinger lengthwise across his mouth, taking it in to hold between his teeth. Jazz followed the movement, his own teeth clinking on the sensor-packed chevron. 

That was a good spot. “Prowl will like that,” Smokescreen said deliberately, taking care to enunciate his words around the finger he held. He bit down gently. 

Too late. Jazz’s mind had already left the station. The train had departed for Fantasy Land. He could practically _see_ Jazz lose control, dropping helplessly into imagining Prowl in his place.

A hiss-click from the messhall speakers preceded Ironhide’s voice. “That’s done it.”

Smokescreen snickered. He didn’t even try to sound less than evil. “That it has.”

The outpost commander sighed. “No murderin’ my mechs.”

“I won’t.” He let go of Jazz’s finger, letting it drag off his lower lip. Jazz’s visor fixated on it, and Smokescreen smirked. “Might **wound** him a little, but…”

“C’mon, he didn’t mean it.”

“Hmmph.” There would be no forgiveness for the tray. None. He had every intention of cutting Jazz’s pride off at the knees for that, if nothing else. 

Speaking of which. “How many people are up there watching this?”

White noise spat quietly from the speaker for a moment.

“That many, huh?” Heh. Good.

More white noise. Ironhide wasn’t going to get involved in the outpost’s various relationship dramas, even if it was standing room only in the security room. He saw no evil, heard no evil, recorded no evil for distribution later.

Smokescreen, on the other hand, wanted this lesson seen, heard, and distributed far and wide. Don’t mess with him, or he’d mess right back -- and win. 

Taking a good hold on both of Jazz’s hands, he planted them right on his headlights. Jazz’s mouth formed a stunned ‘O’ as his gaze dropped to staring in astonishment at Smokescreen’s chest. 

“Reciprocate,” Smokescreen reminded the black-and-white. “How many times we have to do this before you remember to do something back? You started off so well.”

“Mnnnaaa?” Jazz’s visor glazed over as his fingers flexed on smooth glass. His palms rubbed in something near reverence but more like groping. Useless groping, since Smokescreen wasn’t getting anything from it. 

Smokescreen sighed and leaned in a bit further to close his mouth around the audial horn he’d been licking earlier. More strangled noises rewarded his efforts, and the hands on his chest fluttered about, abruptly trying to touch everything at once and achieving nothing in terms of giving Smokescreen anything back. Normally, Smokescreen would take that as his cue to step back until Jazz came back to the real world enough to at least close his mouth. Really. There was no dignity left when a mech couldn’t reel his jaw shut.

Today’s lesson wasn’t about teaching Jazz how to do more than dribble on himself, however. Today was pure and simple breaking the slagging mech.

“You’ve earned at least ten minutes of this,” Smokescreen said as he forced Jazz’s head up. He ran a thumb under that wide visor. Ten minutes of vigorous molestation by a Praxian. It was a dream come true. It was a nightmare come true. Both truths, both going to happen. Somebody was going to have to scrape Jazz off the floor with a putty knife in ten minutes. 

Jazz whimpered.

Smokescreen smile. “Ten minutes starting…now.” Ducking down, he parted his lips just enough to truly _catch_ Jazz’s mouth in a kiss.

 

**[* * * * *]**


	12. Pt. 12

**Title:** Third Wheel  
 **Warning:** **For this part -** this part is not meant to be very funny, but this is a slice-of-life story plotline set in a war, so sometimes the war comes in. This part contains stuff that happens in war; _read at your own risk_. That being said, you can safely skip this part if you want, since it’s meant to set up a couple background things. And, of course, this inhabits a weird area where it’s a humor fic, but people sensitive to misunderstandings causing serious discomfort probably shouldn’t read.  
 **Rating:** PG-13  
 **Continuity:** G1  
 **Characters:** Smokescreen, Jazz, Bumblebee.  
 **Disclaimer:** The theatre doesn’t own the script or actors, nor does it make a profit from the play.  
 **Motivation (Prompt):** People on Tumblr were talking about ‘bots dribbling on themselves while fantasizing about voluptuous bumpers. It had to be written.

**[* * * * *]**  
 **Part Twelve**   
**[* * * * *]**

 

It wasn’t every day the Decepticons took prisoners. Fortunately for Autobot waking up in chains, today was one of those days. 

He didn’t feel fortunate. He felt like someone had been using his head for a punching bag. “Owww.”

A relieved breath puffed out nearby. “Look at that, you’re alive. Conscious, even. Next we’ll work on upright, how’s that sound?”

“You can’t make me,” Smokescreen slurred, trying to put a hand to his helm. It hurt almost as much as his wrists and elbows did as he pulled against whatever was crammed into their joints. “Ow!”

“Hey, don’t do that. Ain’t gonna getcha anywhere.” Metal clanked somewhere nearby, presumably as Jazz shuffled closer. Smokescreen kept his optics offline, refusing to look, but something nudged the side of his face. It felt like a…nose? “Rise’n’shine,” whispered against his cheek, and Smokescreen was grateful Jazz lowered his normally boisterous voice in consideration of his aching head. The annoyingly persistent nudging made up for it. “No sleepin’ in. Wakey wakey.”

“I’m awake,” Smokescreen grumbled, optics stubbornly offline. His rebooting processors were sorting through his temporary file folder for his last waking memories, and they weren’t good ones. The road had collapsed under him, and the last thing his damaged sensors registered had been a dozen mechs approaching.

Jazz’s relief made more sense now. Smokescreen was surprised he’d woken up at all, given who those mechs had to be. 

“Can y’look at me?”

“Don’t wanna,” he muttered on principle. “You’re an ugly reminder of what I did last night. Visual hangover.” He rebooted his optics anyway.

A bright blue visor peered down at him, full of worry Jazz’s playful tone didn’t show. “You wound me, Smokescreen. We had lotsa fun last night.” Another nudge to Smokescreen’s cheek pushed his head to the side so Jazz could get a look at the damage. Jazz’s headlights weren’t much help since they seemed to be pointed to the side what with how the lithe mech was twisted to reach Smokescreen’s helm like this. He deliberately widened his visor to shed a little more light. 

At least there wasn’t any other light around to stab into Smokescreen’s optics and kick around the big ball of pain at the back of his helm. Part of him was aware the lack of light meant confinement, possibly a tent or abandoned building left standing after the bombing runs. He couldn’t tell from what he could see, and he was too dizzy to try and make out details by Jazz’s headlights yet. There a significant Decepticon presence in this area, not enough of one to make this an actual cell. Maybe temporary barracks, but how would they have kept the Autobots from discovering construction? That was potentially a Very Bad Thing, if the Decepticons had hidden an outpost so near the convoy roads. 

“You took one Pit of a hit,” his friend confirmed after peering closely at what had to be a deep dent.

“Feels like it.” Smokescreen turned his helm as Jazz unpretzeled himself. Grimacing made a sharp, hot pain throb behind his right optic, and the Praxian stopped moving, going limp to let the pain wash through him. “’Fun’ my lucky dice,” he said when it passed at last. “You hang out with the wrong crowd for my kind of fun. Next time you invite me out, I’ll stay home and help Sideswipe decorate his cell.”

“What, and miss all this?” Jazz asked in a low voice. He clinked about on the floor close by. 

Smokescreen squinted against the flashing multicolor spangles his damaged visual suite kept throwing into his sight, but even turning his own headlights on didn’t make the strange colors go away. He squinted at the other Autobot incredulously. “Are you…teal?”

Jazz gave him a tight smile. “Little thing Perceptor whipped up. Stings like a glitch, but ‘sall good. Fast. Don’t gotta be online for it to work. Tripped it before I went into stasis, and I’m thinkin’ it was a good choice. Less recognizable this way, yeah?” He shifted his hands forward as much as he could against the cruelly tight chains crushing his own wrists to the floor. “Hi. Name’s Marshall. You?” The way he say it was as much warning as introduction. Jazz, Head of Autobot Special Operations, _could not_ be captured by the Decepticons. Here and now, he had to be Marshall in face, name, and friends.

They’d been taken off the road with barely a chance to transform, much less fight back, and that couldn’t happen to Jazz. Stupid happenstance was a fact of life and death in battle, but if Jazz died, it would be covered up by Autobot Command in order to continue using his indestructible horror reputation for as long as possible. Knowing their enemy was dead for certain would be a relief the Autobots wouldn’t hand over to the Decepticons. Being captured alive, however, lent itself to all kinds of trouble. It’d destroy the reputation he’d built up if the Decepticons took him alive. It would open him to hacking, to torture, to using his slow execution to demoralize the Autobots and pump up the Decepticons. 

The problem with making himself a demon in the shadows was that it made him a target, and a recognizable one at that. The Decepticons would leap on the chance to kill him, and hence he’d become a teal mech named Marshall. Jazz would die a generic Autobot soldier if it came to that.

“Smokescreen,” Smokescreen said, extending his hands to complete the greeting gesture as much as they could while chained up. “For the record, **Marshall** , your parties are the worst.”

“Pfft, kidnappin’ ain’t a party. Party’s what happens once…I…” Cocking his head to the side, Jazz went still to listen. “They’re bringin’ Bumblebee back.”

Frag, they’d taken Bumblebee? Unacknowledged grief evaporated altogether, a heavy weight taken off Smokescreen’s shoulders. Bringing Bumblebee back meant the little yellow scout had survived the ambush. He hoped. “Remind me to never spend the night at your place ever again,” Smokescreen grumbled. “Sleep-overs are rough in,” the corner of Jazz’s mouth twitched, and Smokescreen edited what he’d been about to say into, “er, your domicile.” Right. Don’t talk about the SpecOps depot he’d been driving out to check on with Bumblebee and Jazz. ‘Extended patrol,’ the duty schedule had said, and a pox upon Ironhide for approving Smokescreen’s recruitment into Special Ops. Even if he was only ever tapped for interrogation analysis, just being listed as one of the division threw him headfirst into scrap like this. 

Scrap leaving him ambushed, captured, and chained down at the mercy of a bunch of Decepticons. The chains cinched tight around his wrists and elbows, anchoring him to the floor, but he could inch his legs up to turn the other way. He folded his legs up under himself, taking his weight off the shoulder screaming pain at him under the cacophony of agony from his head. It was an awkward position. He and Jazz were now face to face, bent forward over on their knees with their forearms braced on the floor, flat alongside each other. Smokescreen especially had to lean forward a lot to hook his more prominent chest over the end of his knees, and Jazz’s visor was too close for comfort.

Mostly because having its light that near made Smokescreen’s head hurt more, but yeah. Yeah, it was really weird to be a turn of his head away from --

Footsteps interrupted the staring contest. Smokescreen squinted his optic shutters to spare his headache right before a flap unsnapped the wall in a long ripping sound. They were definitely in a tent. Three mechs shouldered through into the dark room, and the flap sealed closed. 

Metal clashed as Bumblebee was shoved to the ground by the two bigger mechs. The yellow minibot had obviously taken a beating. Dents ringed in cracked paint covered his helm and back, and Smokescreen hissed under his breath as the small mech slowly sat up. Broken glass littered the ground where Bumblebee had landed, his cracked windows and windshield nothing but frames holding piece of glass that knocked loose when one of the ‘Cons kicked him. Bright pink energon and rainbow-tinged lubricant leaked from under his chestplate, running in thick rivulets down his midriff to patter onto his thighs. Despite the damage, Bumblebee managed to smile up at Smokescreen. His four front teeth on the top dental mould were missing, punched out if his gashed upper lip were anything to go by. One optic was missing entirely, the socket around it melted as if an energy lance had been thrust in to remove the lens and shutters. Blackened mechanisms whirred around in the empty hole as Bumblebee’s other optic fought to focus.

“And I thought sleeping with **him** was a bad choice,” Smokescreen said with a jerk of his chin at Jazz. “What’d you drink to go home with those two?”

“Dunno, mech,” Bumblebee croaked, lisping through the open hole where his teeth had been. “Nightmare ‘uel wouldn’t be enough to make ‘em look cute.”

“What, a double-date ain’t enough t’ keep the romance alive?” Jazz asked. His visor was disarmingly wide, full of soft fear that made him look scared to the struts despite the bravado filling his voice. “Slaggin’ ‘Cons. They think it’s all wham, bam, right in the van. Ten shanix they roll over an’ go straight int’ recharge when they’re done with you.”

The two Decepticons turned red optics on the mouthy prisoner, and one grunted to the other, who nodded. They’d chosen their next victim. 

Bumblebee’s remaining optic flicked to his boss. Jazz let his visor widen a shade further, and Bumblebee bucked against the hands holding him down. “Aw, don’t be so hard on Bad and Ugly, here. It’s not ‘eir ‘ault kidnapping’s the only way ‘ey can get a date. ‘ey’re rough, but I gotta say -- “ He broke the banter off for a too-real wince as one of the Decepticons punched him between the shoulders, bending the supports for the altmode roof on his back. It smacked him forward, only his outstretched hands saving him from nose-diving into the ground. The other Decepticon promptly whipped out some chains to start nailing his wrists and elbows to the ground in what appeared to be a standard prisoner pose for these guys. Bumblebee didn’t fight, choosing to ignore the nailgun tightening the chains into his joints. “Kinky bunsha per’erts. No sa’eword, can you be’ie’e it?”

“Their aftercare sucks exhaust, too.”

“You’re telling me? I didn’t e’en get a kiss a’ter ‘ey ‘ragged me up.”

Jazz tsked, shaking his head in mock sympathy, but he held himself so stiffly the act fell flat. His visor was locked on the nasty smirk leaning over him. Bright blue faded to a sickly pastel shade, zeroed in on the scruffy Decepticon emblem on the mech’s chest, and Jazz’s voice shook the tiniest bit. “Poor hosts. Lousy lays. Anything else I gotta know?”

Bumblebee set his jaw against the pain as the chains ground into his joints. “’ey couldn’t get a ‘bot o’ i’ we drew ‘em a diagram. Miss ‘e mark by hal’ o’ **Cybertron**.” He locked a vicious smile on his face and brought his helm up to direct it at the mech chaining him down. “What’s-a matter, can’t ‘ind your port wit’ bo’ hands an’a map?”

Smokescreen kept his optics dimmed and lips pressed together as the predicted kick took Bumblebee right in the jaw. Energon and half-processed fuel spattered the ground. Droplets splatted warm spots on his side. A brisk stomp planted Bumblebee’s face into the ground, and the little yellow scout went limp.

The Decepticon leering at Jazz glanced at his pal, shrugged, and went back to violating the teal Autobot with his optics. “C’mon, let’s get this one up.”

“Yeah, yeah, whatever.”

Jazz swallowed, doors flinching with nerves, but he tore his gaze off the Decepticon to smile weak encouragement at Smokescreen. Leaning forward, he turned his head to catch the Praxian’s mouth in a deep, extended kiss. Surprised, Smokescreen went with it. His head hurt too much to really think of any sort of plan, and the fear Jazz displayed had to be part of the disguise. It had to be. Therefore, the kiss had to be part of it as well. It just had to be, because he honestly couldn’t think of a single other reason why Jazz’s lips would be moving against his with such urgency, their tongues hooking and playing as if desperate to hold onto one another.

Gasping, Jazz jerked back as the Decepticons grabbed him by the doors. “He’s not going to save you,” the leering ‘Con crooned, pulling him back until Jazz made a sound of pain. “You’re all ours, now.” A tire scuffed against the Decepticon, and both ‘Cons chuckled. “We got ourselves a fighter. How long you think he can keep it up?”

“Long enough to make the screams good and loud when he breaks,” the other Decepticon said. 

Jazz put on feeble mask of bravery as they yanked the nails out of his chains. “Keep it warm for me?” he pleaded, looking at Smokescreen. The thin shield of courage crumbled, and his lower lip trembled before he could firm it. 

“We’ll keep you warm,” leer-‘Con said, crudely groping at the his waist when they pulled him up. 

A wide, panicking visor and kicking heels were the last thing through the tent flap as the two Decepticons dragged Jazz out.

Smokescreen stared after him. Bumblebee mumbled something into the ground, moaned, and took his face out of the imprint it’d made. Smokescreen shook his head and looked at the other Autobot. “So here’s a question: can you speak hand with your tongue?”

Bumblebee rolled his head to the side on the ground, squinting through his good optic. “Ne’er tried. Why?”

“’Cause I swear Jazz just told me stay quiet and give you this.” Smokescreen worked his jaw for a second, tongue prying up behind his upper dental mould. Chirolinguistics via mouth-to-mouth had worked it in pretty tight, but he popped it out eventually. The thing was thick but short, resembling a broken knife tip crossed with a miniature chisel. If he didn’t know any better, he’d have said it was the front tooth of a huge mech. 

He spat it to the ground in front of Bumblebee. “That something you can use?”

The bleary look sharpened into one of intense, triumphant interest. “Oh yeaaaaaah.” 

Bumblebee leaned down to lip the makeshift wedge up, then twisted to nudge it under the nearest nail holding the chains down. His missing teeth made keeping a grip a difficult endeavor, but realistically, they were chained down in an enemy encampment surrounded by Decepticons, being held for torture. Missing teeth weren’t much of a deterrent in the grand scheme of how badly they needed to escape. Pain beat death any day.

Bumblebee managed just fine. “De’inately use ‘is. How’d he get ‘is to you?”

Smokescreen rested his aching head on his forearms. “He kissed me.”

Bumblebee didn’t stop in slowly levering the first nail up, but he gave the Praxian a thoroughly startled look. “I missed ‘at?”

“Yeah. Sorry.”

“’raggit.”

“I think the ‘Cons thought it was hot.”

“Yeah, pro’lly what he wanted. ‘ey get suckered inna clanging him, it buys us more time alone in here.” Jazz could play whatever part would appeal to their captors the most, which was fortunate. The slagging Decepticon had been generous with the nailgun. Bumblebee needed time to work the nails free. 

Smokescreen made a face. “Not sure if I’d take that over a beating, personally.”

“Gangclang takes longer ‘an a beating.”

It depressed him that Bumblebee -- smiling, cheerful, happy, buddy-‘bot Bumblebee -- could say that. By the matter-of-fact tone, however, whatever pity Smokescreen felt was better directed toward those who’d found out the hard way why time was the greatest weapon a trained agent could be given. He lit his optics just enough to watch Bumblebee -- hardened, deadly, dangerous, scout-operative Bumblebee -- pry at the nails. Somewhere outside a hoarse, wild shouting started, barely loud enough to be heard. It stopped almost as fast as it started.

“Sickos,” Smokescreen said quietly.

Bumblebee glanced at him briefly. “Not all-a ‘em. Most-a ‘em won’t let it happen ‘less it’s ‘or interrogation, and e’en ‘en ‘ey won’t join in. But ‘is isn’t a unit. No order, no regs, no o’icers to keep ‘e worst in line. ‘ey’re not e’en ‘Cons, ‘rom what I heard. ‘ey’re deserters looking ‘or a way back in. ‘ey t‘ink I’ ‘ey get somet’ing ‘rom us, ‘ey can buy back into ‘e ‘Cons.” He looked back to his work. “Scum kicked outta ‘eir own side.”

“But the ‘Cons will take them back.”

“Mm? Mm.” Bumblebee let the wedge go with his lips and nudged it with his bent nose into another cranny between nail and floor. “Heh. Maybe yes, maybe no. Not i’ we kill ‘em ‘irst, or, heh.” He smirked at the floor. “Or report ‘em to ‘e ‘Cons. No base wants a bunsha rapists showing up outside ‘eir door.” A sudden spate of giggling shook him. “Besides, it’d be **sush** a shame if we didn’t gi’e our hosts a gi’t. Wheeljack made it special and e’eryt’ing.”

It took Smokescreen a minute to work out what Bumblebee was trying to say. The missing teeth were bleeding in earnest now, making pronunciation difficult and spraying slippery pink on the floor, but he thought the yellow scout was saying something appalling. “…wait, what gift. What. No. Is he going to kill them via interfacing. Tell me Ja -- Marshall can’t actually kill someone through interfacing. Death by frag isn’t a real thing. That isn’t a real thing!”

Bumblebee almost had the first nail up. “Nope,” he grunted, and Smokescreen’s tensed doors wilted in relief. “You e’er wonder why Cli’jumper’s got sush hea’y-duty ‘irewalls? And he doesn’t ‘rag around anymore, you noticed?”

“Yyyyyyyyyeah?” Seemed off-topic, but okay, yeah, he’d noticed that for sure. Everybody had. Cliffjumper used to flirt with anyone who hit the gun range on a regular basis. Sheer aggression and a love of overpowered weaponry turned him on something fierce. Outpost opinion was that tumbling Mirage had tamed the wild minibot, or at least kept him sated. Which was a bizarre thing to think now that he was thinking it, and he’d pay money to stop thinking about it. Anytime now. He thought too much about people’s interfacing lives as it was.

“Wheeljack hadda install all ‘ose ‘irewalls so all the ‘iruses he seeds us wit’ don’t kill him when Mirage ‘rags him. Cli’jumper hadda sign a wai’er saying he won’t ‘rag anybody but Mirage unless he gets a clean bill ‘rom Ambu’on, ‘cause he’s pro’lly as in’ectious as we are by now.” Bumblebee’s giggles became evil snickering. “We don’t usually hook up outside ‘e di’ision, but mech, we **know** when someone’s been sheating on one-a us.”

Smokescreen digested that. The longer he thought about it, the more warning flags popped up. Jazz had intentionally drawn the Decepticons’ attention, getting them to take him and appealing to their lust instead of anger. He’d see Jazz rile people up before. He had no doubt the Decepticons could have hauled him off for a lengthy beating just as easily as what they were off doing now. Jazz had _wanted_ them to frag him, wanted as many of them as possible to take a turn, and Bumblebee was gleefully imagining the consequences. 

“What kind of special host gift is Jazz giving out right now?” Smokescreen asked carefully, kind of afraid to know.

“Might not kill ‘em.” 

Might didn’t mean it wouldn’t. Smokescreen stared at Bumblebee. “Are they going to explode?” Please don’t tell him it was possible for Wheeljack to make people explode via a sexually transmitted invention. 

The nail popped up enough for Bumblebee to turn his head to the side and take it between his intact teeth, rocking it back and forth to pull it out. When he spat it out, he smirked a gap-toothed, bright pink smile at the Praxian watching him. “Might just gi’e ‘em all a bad case o’ rust rash. And ‘an-lock. And ‘ent-burps. And cable itshing. And processor o’erclocking. Lotsa o’erclocking. ‘at might kill ‘em. ‘eir connectors will pro’lly ‘reeze up. Port lubricant might go into o’erdri’e. Like, permanently.” He started in on the next nail. Patient, he nudged the wedge in. “Just ’ink of ‘em dripping e’erywhere. Oo, plus tank glitshes. Dripping **and** purging. No base, e’en a ‘Con base, is letting ‘ese cogsuckers in, trust me.”

Well, that sounded the opposite of fantastic. “So they’ll just **wish** they were dead.”

Bumblebee’s good optic glittered vengeful malice. “Eshactly.”

Smokescreen looked at the battered little yellow Autobot and felt a chill shoot down his back as he finally saw the Special Ops agent as they saw each other: weapons, all the way down to their interface equipment. No wonder Jazz had used even a kiss to communicate a plan, and intended to seduce every Decepticon deserter he could into using him. Every Special Operations mech was riddled with disease, living sexual weapons against anyone who dared push the war that far.

That was appalling. It was horrible. And yet…Smokescreen couldn’t wish Jazz’s gift on a better group of mechs. 

He gave Bumblebee a suspicious look. “So what about Prowl?”

“’e’s got compatible ‘irewalls. Wheeljack made sure o’ it.”

“What about **me**?”

Bumblebee coughed at the wrong moment and nearly swallowed a nail. “Weeeeell…”

“ **Bumble** bee…”

“Not saying any o’ us would turn you down, buuuut,” he licked off the excess energon making his work harder, “’ere’s a reasons Ambu’on hates being our medic. He’s seen a lotta shrap he ne’er wanted to see, he says.” He hesitated a second. “And repair slabs are kinda cozy.”

Oh, dear holy Primus. “Are you -- “ Of course he wasn’t joking, nothing about this was a joke. “Medically supervised ‘facing,” Smokescreen muttered, shutting off his optics. “I’ve heard of safe sex, but that’s ridiculous.”

Bumblebee busily pried up nails. Smokescreen could have sworn the grinning minibot said, “We use protection,” around the wedge, but quite honestly, he didn’t want to know for sure.

He was just glad Bumblebee could still smile.

 

**[* * * * *]**


	13. Pt. 13

**Title:** Third Wheel  
**Warning:** This inhabits a weird area where it’s a humor fic, but people sensitive to misunderstandings causing serious discomfort probably shouldn’t read.  
**Rating:** PG-13  
**Continuity:** G1  
**Characters:** Smokescreen, Jazz, Bumblebee, Hoist, Prowl.  
**Disclaimer:** The theatre doesn’t own the script or actors, nor does it make a profit from the play.  
**Motivation (Prompt):** People on Tumblr were talking about ‘bots dribbling on themselves while fantasizing about voluptuous bumpers. It had to be written. _Thank you for voting, anonymous Nebraska voter! Here’s your voter incentive ficlet!*_

 

 **[* * * * *]**  
**Part Thirteen**  
**[* * * * *]**

 

Given Bumblebee’s state of mind, Smokescreen didn’t mind being used as his comfort blanket. He thought of it as how Bluestreak felt better holding a rifle, or, probably more accurately, how Cliffjumper tended to cuddle Very Large Guns when recharging out in the field. A mech felt better having something safe on hand. 

And, given their size difference, it even made a kind of sense that the minibot had claimed his lap. Smokescreen’s lap was a safe space for Bumblebee. Honestly, that was more flattering than anything. He let the little yellow scout curl half across him, arms around his waist and face mostly hidden behind one arm. The position let Bumblebee keep his one functional optic on the doctor. No offense to Hoist or anything, but he wasn’t their usual medic, and this wasn’t Outpost 49-B6-4. All three of their merry band was twitchy as frag, injured, half-starved, and just wanted to go _home_.

Two of the four afflictions could be handled by Hoist, and he didn’t begrudge the three Autobots sharing his exam table the other two. He’d treated survivors before. War did worse things to mechs than make them wary of medical assistance. He was the main base’s medic, not their outpost’s medic, and they didn’t know him well compared to Ambulon. Wariness was a natural reaction.

So he didn’t think much of Bumblebee holding onto the Praxian, all but hiding in Smokescreen’s lap. Since Smokescreen didn’t protest, Hoist assumed it was welcome contact. His mistake was assuming Jazz burying his face in Smokescreen’s hood was just as innocent. 

Smokescreen knew better. “I know what you’re doing,” he told the happy saboteur. “Shame on you.”

Lips pressed against his hood, and Smokescreen could feel the curve of a smile right before Jazz blew out. 

Tiny motoring noises resulted. Bumblebee giggled. Hoist gave them the confused look of a medic who’d never worked at Outpost 49-B6-4.

Smokescreen sighed. Both SpecOps mechs were slightly delirious from pain, infected injuries, and sheer relief that they’d made it. He knew that. Trust him, he knew what they were feeling, and he knew he wasn’t in his right mind, either. He’d gotten out of the Decepticon encampment with only a crumpled wheelwell and shot-out windows to show for crashing the party. Jazz and Bumblebee had taken far worse, before and during the fight to win free. Smokescreen had acted as distraction, barreling full speed through the middle of the crowd and filling the area with his signature smokescreen, then picking off anyone who stumbled out of the cloud. That had worked until the Decepticons got over the shock and started fighting back, but even beaten to slag, Bumblebee had mad skills. SpecOps agents had enough pain management training to crawl through the Pit on broken knees if they had to.

Jazz and Bumblebee had torn out of the dense haze like Unicron scenting munchies, and the three Autobots had fled out in the wasteland, leaving chaos in their wake -- but not for long. The enraged Decepticons formed more of a mob than a proper tracking party, howling after their escaped prisoners.

Smokescreen had been in good company, but staying ahead of the hunt hadn’t been easy. Traps and tricks had bought them time. There’d simply been no Special Ops magic to conjure badly-needed fuel or repairs out of nothing. Now they were paying the price of four days of constant movement on poor reserve levels.

The luck of Primus had blessed them. The Decepticons hunting them got sloppy, anger overriding caution, and an Autobot patrol had picked up on the activity in the area. Smokescreen had never seen anything so glorious as Rack and Ruin sprinting to meet them, calling in back-up as they ran. 

Which reminded him. “I gotta introduce Rack to Whirl,” Smokescreen mused, and Jazz laughed against his chest. Bumblebee beedle-beeped his horn as he hitched more of himself into the Praxian’s lap. Smokescreen plonked his head down to rest his chevron against the back of Jazz’s head. Oh, yeah. The three of them were flying high as a Seeker on released tension. “Glad you find other people’s relationships funny,” he said dryly to the giggling operatives, “but Rack’s applying to the Wreckers. I figure fragging Whirl’s about the same thing as actually going into combat with them. A preview will do him good.” The giggling picked up. “Stop laughing. I’ll have you know that this is a serious endeavor that will require the most delicate handling. Whirl is, well, Whirl, and Rack’s as shy as a turbofox in heat.” He paused for effect. “I was thinking of shoving them at each other and shouting, _‘Ready-set-go!’_ ”

Hoist politely ignored the three of the snickering in bleary amusement.

“What ‘bout Ruin?” Jazz said.

“I’ll find him someone nice, too. Less homicidal. What do you think of Powerglide?”

“I refuse t’ answer on grounds I know this conversation’s bein’ recorded for security purposes.” A flash of blue peeked at the camera in the corner of the examination room. Patient privacy didn’t apply to potential infiltrators. Even the Head of Special Operations underwent stringent security measures after time in Decepticon hands, or maybe especially him. The teal paint disguise seemed to have held, but one never knew.

It hadn’t been important while fleeing for their lives, but Jazz had begun fidgeting soon after Hoist ushered them in for examination and containment. “Sit still,” Smokescreen told him without lifting his head. A squirmy mech made for an uncomfortable pillow, although he probably wouldn’t care as soon as he crashed off the relief high. Exhaustion would make even the floor look like the best bunk in existence. 

“It itches,” Jazz complained. “Am I peelin’? Feels like I’m peelin’.”

“Shut up, you. You’re not peeling.” The paint looked a tad rough, as if the polish had been stripped, but otherwise Jazz had a perfectly serviceable matte greenish-blue and white paintjob. Smokescreen nudged him in reproof for the bitching. “You can write Perceptor a strongly-worded letter demanding better working conditions later.”

Jazz’s engine grumbled an extremely rude noise. “He turned me weird-colored. And flakey.”

“Teal isn’t weird, and it worked, so suck it up and deal.”

“But it itcheeeeeees.” The teal mech squirmed some more, scratching at his arms. The motion just so happened to rub his face back and forth on Smokescreen’s chest. How subtle. “Itch itch itch.” Rub rub rub.

Exasperated, the Praxian gave up on his uncooperative headrest. He lifted his head and squinted wearily down at Jazz. “You’ve got dents in places I don’t even have, and you’re whining about flaking paint? I’m going to tell Ambulon what a wuss you are. He flakes every day.”

Indignant noises came from chestward. 

“Wheeljack’s sure to invent a spray to keep you out of the pharmaceudical cabinet. Touch the medbay drugs, get spritzed, itch for days. He’ll have you trained to leave it alone in no time.”

 _Pbpbpbpbpbpbt_ blew against his hood. Smokescreen ignored it magnificently. 

Bumblebee stirred between them, reaching up around Smokescreen’s smashed wheelwell to fumble for his mouth. He pressed a finger across it once he located it. “Shhhh. Post-mission complaining is a proud tradition. Keeps our minds off major damage.”

Hoist paused in prepping his nozzle to spray paint sealant. “Ah, so it is not as urgent as he makes it sound.” 

“’He’s’ right here, and it slagging well is! Feels like a scraplet infestation,” Jazz said. He fidgeted about, engine sputtering, but Bumblebee was already waving Hoist back to patching actual injuries. Anything not serious enough to get his boss’ face off that big beautiful bumper wasn’t very serious.

“This would be considerably easier, my off-color friend, if you would oblige me by sitting back,” Hoist said as he picked up his pliers again. 

“Can’t,” Jazz said, voice muffled by Smokescreen’s hood. “Busy.”

“Are you serious?” Smokescreen said at the same moment Hoist, all innocence, asked, “Might I inquire as to what?”

“Protectin’ Smokes’ modesty,” Jazz said in a somber, ultra-serious voice. Bumblebee’s horn-beeping giggles betrayed his sobriety, but Jazz was an experienced operative. He kept his composure. “I gotta hold his hood down or it’ll pop up. It’d be improper an’ scandalous.”

Taken aback, Hoist really had no reply for that. “I say, good show. You’re quite the friend to have at one’s side.”

“You have no idea,” Smokescreen deadpanned.

Hoist politely nodded as if he understood the comment, which he clearly didn’t, and bent to reach under Jazz’s chest to pry at the remnants of the last Decepticon to have a go right before Smokescreen had plowed through the gangclang queue. The severed cords sparked when touched. “Repairing you is exceedingly more difficult the further into your medical file I read. Excuse me,” the doctor patted Bumblebee gently on the hip to inform the minibot of where his hand was going. “An insulated glove is listed for you as a necessity rather than a safety precaution, and I’m beginning to understand why,” he said absently. Most of his attention was on the savaged jack plugged into one of Jazz’s distended ports. Tugging the cord with his pliers cause Jazz to flinch, the jack was lodged so deep, and Smokescreen watched anger flood the friendly doctor’s optics. 

It disappeared into a deliberately light conversational tone. Hoist had treated a _lot_ of survivors. If the rescued Autobots wanted to joke around, Hoist wasn’t going to ruin whatever kept them on their feet.

“My word, what a nasty customer. Serves him right to have you end his fun that way.” Hoist tapped Bumblebee with his nozzle before easing it up under Jazz’s chest as well to spray lubricant on the port. “Tell me, do you sharpen your hatch edges? Are they spring-loaded to close them with this force, or did you use a knife?”

“Trade secret,” Jazz said. Only a thin layer of cheer covered the ugly tension he felt as pain rocked back and forth inside sensitive equipment up under his engine. He rootled his face into Smokescreen’s chest, stubbornly reveling in the freedom to motor without being smacked away.

Bumblebee’s functioning optic kept close watch on the pliers easing the jack loose, since his boss couldn’t do it. “Heh heh heh. You should have heard the fragger **shriek**.”

One of Smokescreen’s better memories of that night, admittedly. “He’s alright though, right? We’re okay to travel?”

The mangled cable donated by the unlucky rapist clattered to the side table, and Hoist gave the twitchy trio of Autobots an inquiring look. The _plpbpbpbpbt_ sound effects made no sense to someone not suffering Praxian-lust, nor did just how much cuddliness Smokescreen seemed willing to tolerate. “I would not advise the three of you travel anywhere.”

“We’re travelin’ soon as we’re road-worthy,” Jazz corrected him.

“No offense to your cells here,” Bumblebee added, “but our lock-up’s got style.”

Smokescreen nodded. “Mmhmm. Yeah, if we’re going to be vetted for security, I’d rather sit in our lock-up. Red Alert would just repeat it all once we got out of here and went home, anyway.”

“True that.” Jazz nodded, not-so-coincidentally rubbing his face around. “Don’t forget the mood lighting.”

“Right. Nothing makes interrogation better than good mood lighting.”

Poor Hoist. The three banged-up Autobots started sniggering at his blank look of total incomprehension. It wasn’t his fault he didn’t know about Outpost 49-B6-4’s unique guard system. 

After their months in the lock-up for assaulting Smokescreen, the twins had petitioned for the blown-out cell at the end of the block to be turned into their official quarters. Sunstreaker was antisocial enough -- and Sideswipe liked having his own space enough -- that it was the ideal spot to give them some much-needed privacy away from _people_. Red Alert had put his stamp of approval on the idea since it permanently stationed a pair of guards in the lock-up, even if it meant that the place was now lit in tasteful blue and green strings of lights decorating the bars of the last cell. Between those and Sideswipe’s homemade strobe light, the lock-up resembled a strange sort of dance club on nights everybody dropped by to visit.

Jazz had signed off on the petition for that alone. Spontaneous raves unnerved Decepticon prisoners something fierce.

Smokescreen didn’t know why Ironhide had approved it. Knowing Ironhide, it’d been practicality. It freed up two bunks in the barracks for more soldiers, after all.

Hoist blinked at them a moment later. They could almost see him decide they were taking the waste oil out of him, but he was a good-humored sort. He played along. “Very well, I’ll pass your request on up the line.”

“I already di~i~id,” Jazz sing-songed.

“Indeed,” a stern voice said from the exam room’s doorway, and Jazz shot upright, quivering like Hound finding a scent. “An escort will be assembled once your immediate medical issues are addressed, and after a debriefing.”

Smokescreen looked down at his hood, which mysteriously enough hadn’t sprung open without Jazz there to hold it down. “Look at that, I’m cured.”

Prowl stiffly nodded greetings to Bumblebee and Smokescreen but focused his attention on Jazz. “Two of your pursuers were left behind after reinforcements forced a retreat, and initial questioning has revealed enough information to launch an attack on their main encampment. I assumed you would like some input on the extermination mission I’ll be proposing to the Prime.” Optimus Prime would inevitably temper a ruthless extermination mission with his admirable sense of mercy, but that didn’t mean Prowl couldn’t crush the mechs during the initial assault.

Jazz lit up. He knew how Prowl’s mind worked. That’s why he loved it so much. “Oh, y’ gorgeous mech,” he breathed, popping to his feet to bounce up onto the other exam table nearer to the door. He dangled his feet off the edge and leaned forward, hands braced beside his knees. “Oh, I love you. Come talk psychological profiles to me, y’ evil, evil mech. I have so much to tell you ‘bout the camp an’ everybody in it.”

Smokescreen poked Bumblebee. “Notice how he doesn’t doubt Jazz’s loyalty in the slightest. He trusts Jazz more than anybody,” he whispered to the little scout, and Bumblebee hummed thoughtfully. 

“How you figure?” Bumblebee whispered back just as quiet.

Because he had an inside audio called Optimus Prime to inform him Prowl always followed protocol for anybody whose loyalty was in question. With the exception of Jazz. “Intuition,” Smokescreen said, smiling.

He didn’t need to see the look aimed at his bumper. And lo, the Magic Bumper theory converted another follower.

Hoist just shook his head at the world in general and went back to working on Bumblebee’s injuries.

Until Prowl stopped mid-conversation to cock his head. Vague puzzlement filled his face as he swept a look over Jazz, helm to foot. “Jazz…you’re hot.”

Even Hoist stopped what he was doing. Smokescreen actually gasped. Bumblebee, who’d been stoically enduring the welding of one of his struts, stuffed his hand into his mouth to muffle a shocked yelp.

Jazz flipped from professional calm to flustered in a split second. “Uh, I. Really? I mean, I…really?” He shot a panicked glance back toward the others. They were no help. Smokescreen looked as though he’d been slapped, and Bumblebee was squeeing quietly. 

Taking a deep breath, Jazz curled his legs up onto the exam table to strike his best _Draw Me Like One Of Your Polyhexian Models_ pose. “Y-yeah? You’re hotter than smelted ore yourself, Prowler.” Time to get his flirt on. He could do this. He could.

“Don’t mess this up, please don’t,” Smokescreen hissed, afraid to so much as blink and break whatever bizarre spell had been cast.

“Unbelievable,” Hoist said under his breath. “How unprofessional.”

Prowl’s optics continued to rove Jazz’s body as if seeing him for the first time. His brow ridges furrowed under his chevron. “You’re **unnaturally** hot.”

“Oh my Primuuuuuuus,” Bumblebee shrilled in the softest squeak possible. He flapped his hands in tiny motions, fanning himself as his fans stalled out. “Oh, oh, oh!”

Jazz smiled, tremulously hopeful. “Aw, y’really mean it?”

Prowl met his gaze at last, and the puzzlement in the Praxian’s optics turned into astonishment. “Really, Jazz. You’re on fire.”

Smokescreen and Bumblebee clutched each other, absolutely gleeful. Jazz gaped, beyond happy and falling into the realm of helpless joy.

Prowl’s optics narrowed. That kind of laser-focused intensity focused on one mech was impressive. “Jazz.”

“I -- oh, frag, Prowl, why didn’tcha ever **say** anythin’ -- “

“Jazz, you 're on fire.” Prowl pointed. 

They all looked. Greenish-orange flames licked off the rough teal paint covering Jazz’s upper arm.

“Huh. How 'bout that.” They all watched him burn for a second. “Guess somebody should put that out. Um.” Jazz glanced back at Hoist, a profoundly crestfallen expression on his face. “Little help, here?”

Two terribly exciting minutes of activity commenced. An abundance of fire-retardant foam was sprayed on the malfunctioning quick-change paint, which for reasons known only to Perceptor went from itching and peeling straight to ignition. The second Hoist smothered one patch, another one burst into flames. Soon there wasn’t much to be seen of the Head of Special Operations but a foam monster in his shape.

It slumped, depressed. Prowl had, of course, left the examination room once it was clear Hoist had the fire under control. From the set of his doors as he left, he obviously assumed the fire had been intentional, meant to provoke exactly the lines Prowl had used. Yet another flirting prank with him as the butt of the joke. Jazz’s immature behavior disappointed him once more.

“He ain’t ever gonna believe that wasn’t my fault,” the foam monster said sadly.

Hoist attempted to comfort him by patting his shoulder, or at least sinking a hand into the foam approximately where he thought Jazz’s shoulder was located. “I don’t approve of your usual pranks on him, but that **was** quite funny. However, do try to avoid injuring yourself further, please.” 

He didn’t under why Jazz slumped further. 

 

**[* * * * *]**

_[ **A/N:** *If you don’t know what the voter incentive ficlets are, they’re me offering fic in return for people voting in the American Presidential primaries. If you’ve voted, you can send me a Tumblr Ask claiming a ficlet or, as this anon did, ask for the writing time to be applied toward an actual fic. Until the curtain rises next time, m’dears.]_


	14. Pt. 14

**Title:** Third Wheel  
 **Warning:** This inhabits a weird area where it’s a humor fic, but people sensitive to misunderstandings causing serious discomfort probably shouldn’t read.  
 **Rating:** PG-13  
 **Continuity:** G1  
 **Characters:** Smokescreen, Prowl.  
 **Disclaimer:** The theatre doesn’t own the script or actors, nor does it make a profit from the play.  
 **Motivation (Prompt):** People on Tumblr were talking about ‘bots dribbling on themselves while fantasizing about voluptuous bumpers. It had to be written. 

 

**[* * * * *]**  
 **Part Fourteen**   
**[* * * * *]**

 

He hadn’t expected Prowl to take it personal. 

He also hadn’t expected Prowl to ask him for advice.

It seemed he was wrong on both accounts.

"Is there a particular reason you're mercilessly slaughtering my side today?" Smokescreen folded his arms on the table and put his chin in them. The hologram battlefield continued to show complete annihilation from this angle. Sometimes it was really, really obvious why Prowl considered tactical exercises a game. Smokescreen wasn't the kind of long-term strategist his fellow Praxian was, and his short-term tactical decisions didn't stand much chance against a grand master.

Prowl seemed grimly satisfied by total victory. Fear victorious Player #3. Player #1 was still struggling along on the board, but Player #2, a.k.a. Smokescreen, had been wiped from the battlefield. Even as Smokescreen watched, Prowl dragged and dropped a line of combat across the battlefield, and a large swathe of the hologram suddenly blinked from Player #1's blue to Player #3's red. 

"Who's the poor scrapper you're driving off the board now?" Smokescreen asked idly. The frontlines were closing around the remaining blue troops. Prowl's troops were eating huge gulps of the enemy. 

The corner of Prowl's mouth twitched upward, although he didn't take his optics off the battlefield. "Optimus Prime."

A cold chill shivered down Smokescreen’s back. Well, then. The Autobots were really lucky they'd gotten Prowl on their side.

"You are in **such** a mood," Smokescreen said. He didn't raise his chin from his arms as the hologram turned entirely red. A window blipped up indicating Player #1 offered surrender and congratulations on a good game. Optimus fragging Prime had surrendered. Megatron would be envious. 

Smokescreen knew his own limits. His pride stung, but he had the feeling Prowl had needed to decimate something today. It was the only reason he could think of the Head of Strategic Planning had issued an invitation to him after months of silence. Smokescreen had missed his biweekly trips to the main base for tactical games, but the awkwardness of the outpost basically choosing him over Prowl hadn’t lent itself to Smokescreen making the first move. He’d been waiting for Prowl to indicate one way or another how things were.

At least off-duty. Prowl was as professional as ever on-duty. Which, thank Primus, meant the outpost missions rolled along without a hitch. Prowl would probably show up to his own execution to direct everyone in the most efficient manner to kill him. This was the first time Smokescreen had been around him off-duty in months.

Rolling his head to the side, he looked up through the hologram at the other Praxian. "Okay, you've killed us both in record time. I'm either dead or your prisoner. What is thy will, o captor mine?"

He expected Prowl to set up another game. He didn't expect Prowl to loom out of the red light of the hologram projector, doors spread wide and optics hidden in black shadows beneath a chevron lowered in threat, suddenly. "Smokescreen," the mech said in a flat tone. His engine downshifted into an incredibly ominous growl.

"Eep?" Smokescreen said. He could _feel_ his optics slowly bleach pale.

"I do not," Prowl said in that terrible monotone, "appreciate being classified as disposable."

Smokescreen, of course, drew a perfectly reasonable conclusion from this statement: he was going to die.

"Please don't murder meeeeeeee I swear I didn't know what they were doing I don't want to die oh Primus they're never going to find my body are they heeeeelp." Hiding under his arms, he squeezed the shutters over his optics shut and waited for the end. Yeah, bravery and courage sounded all well and good, and going down in a blaze of glory this was not, but this wasn't combat, either. This was being taken out by a vengeful TacHead in a dark room. Oh Primus oh Primus he was going to die a messy, painful death.

After a full minute of nervous waiting, doors twitching and vents clamped closed, he finally peeked out from under his defensive fort of arms. What the frag, it wasn't as though Prowl couldn't dispose of him just as easily without arms in the way. Arms were fairly pathetic defense against the Wrath of Prowl.

Aaaaaand that was an expression of shock and confusion if he'd ever seen one. It was probably the most baffled Prowl had ever looked during any of these weekly tactical games, and that included the time Smokescreen argued that Mirage's thighs counted as a diversionary force. Which had led to Prowl drawing up guidelines for weaponizing the Prime's speeches in their games, so obviously he hadn't been stunned for too long that time.

Smokescreen had to venture a tentative poke at him to break him out of it, this time. "Uhhhh, sir? I take it you, um," didn't intend to murder him and siphon his fuel for a nightcap, "weren't threatening me?"

"No," Prowl said faintly. "I meant to enlist your aid in strengthening personal relations with the people of Outpost 49-B6-4."

They blinked at each other.

"Really?" Smokescreen sat up cautiously, pulling his hands off the table into his lap to hide their nervous fidgeting. "'Cause that wasn't what I got from that. Like, at all." His fuel pump was still hammering at twice its normal speed.

"Why? It is not your fault in any way. It was a judgment made without your input. And while I understand the reasoning behind my value as a person to the outpost as a whole, having it thrown in my face that they value me as a strategist instead of a friend was an uncomfortable truth. It has nothing to do with you." Prowl seemed confused by Smokescreen's confusion. If it even occurred to him, he’d apparently dismissed the whole idea of someone in his position punishing the cause of his distress. 

Reassuring, in a way, but disorienting all the same. Fraggit, Prowl was the admirable officer type Smokescreen was _not_ used to, and it was throwing him for a loop. "I don't think they don't like you," he said, feeling the words out carefully. "It's just that they...had to make a value judgment that doesn't, er, well, it doesn't really exist in reality. Comparing us made a point to me I kind of needed to hear at the time," he looked away, smiling a bit in discomfort, "and thanks for that -- "

"You've already thanked me. You don't have to bring it up repeatedly." Prowl stepped back from looming in the light of the hologram, sitting down on the other side of the table. He shut the interactive program off as an afterthought. It made the dark room darker, but it also reduced the creepiness factor. There was something rather alarming about seeing Prowl lit from beneath by victorious red. It range alarm bells in the back of Smokescreen's head.

He reset his vocalizer. "I know. Just...thanks. But my point's that it's not that they don't value you as a friend, it's that they don't know you as one." He risked a glance at Prowl. The mech had the kind of resting face that defaulted to the negative side of neutral. It made it hard to tell what he was thinking. "We never even see you off-duty, y’know? You come in, do your job, and leave, and you are **really** single-minded about it. You didn't even notice how much everyone there idolizes you until I said something."

Prowl's optics narrowed, but he held his peace. He didn't believe Smokescreen's tales of the outpost's Praxian-lust, not yet, but he hadn't been able to refute them, either.

"Do you ever talk to anyone there about, you know..." Smokescreen shruggged, helpless to encapsulate everything social. "Stuff?"

A strange wariness entered the other Praxian's optics, and Prowl's doors lowered slightly. He spoke as though the conversation had taken a turn toward dangerous negotiations over toxic substances. "What...kind of...stuff?" 

"For Pit's sake, I'm not talking about what kind of lube you use on your prongs," Smokescreen muttered just quiet enough he could claim he didn't mean to be overheard. Prowl's doors popped up like they were spring-loaded, and Smokescreen pasted on a bright smile. "Stuff! Not-about-work stuff! Don't you talk about stuff with people here?" He gestured broadly at the room, meaning the base. "Whaddya talk about with your friends here? Have you ever tried talking to anybody at the outpost about that kind of stuff?"

Prowl looked down. Smokescreen got the impression he was fiddling with his hands. 

"Sir?" Okay, dipping into rather more personal territory here than he was used to around Prowl. Time to drive like there were landmines. "With all due respect, sir. Do you, errr." He ran his fans for a second to clear his vents. "You have friends here, right?"

Much fiddling of fingers. "Yes," Prowl said in a subdued tone. "I had hoped you might help me make more."

"Yeah?" Holy frag, he had not come equipped for this meeting today. "That's -- that's great! I think it'd make a big difference in that hypothetical comparison of us if you -- " No, that really wasn't a good way to start this discussion. Smokescreen coughed, cutting himself off. "The outpost just need to get to know you better! You're a good guy. You," oh slag, think think think, "you kick aft in tactical games!" Help, he was drawing a blank. Smokescreen smiled so hard his face hurt as he stalled for time, mind racing. "You have a great sense of humor, and you're smart, probably smarter than most people, and -- and -- "

Prowl stared at him, disappointment growing in his face the longer Smokescreen stumbled on.

Alright, this was ridiculous. "Look, I honestly have no idea what you do for fun," Smokescreen said at last, giving up. "I want to encourage you," his doors twitched as he suddenly recalled whom exactly he was talking to, "um, sir. But I don't know anything about you."

"That appears to be the problem," Prowl said quietly. He looked down at his hands. "Do you consider me a friend, Smokescreen?"

Erk.

Choking his engine turned a panicked rev into a muted stutter, but he couldn't throttle his fans down before they betrayed him. He knew he was gaping at Prowl like a rookie asked to recite the Autobot Code, but Primus spare his spark if he'd been prepared for this!

"I-I, uh, well. Maybe?" he squeaked out after an uncomfortable minute of squirming. "In a way? As much as I can be?"

Prowl started to respond, stopped, and frowned. When he started again, he sized Smokescreen up as he asked, "What do you mean?"

He was going to kill him with these questions. Swear to Primus, Smokescreen was going to die by awkward conversation. It was part of Prowl's nefarious plot to destroy him. "You don’t let me in. We. You, I mean, you invite me here to go over tactical simulations, and it turned to games, but we don’t **talk**. We do the game, and then I pester you about giving Jazz a chance,” Prowl’s optics narrowed at him, and Smokescreen put his hands up, “and afterward I go back to tallying supplies for the convoy. I don't really know you?" he said, making it a question, because he had no idea what Prowl wanted to hear. 

"What would it take to 'get to know' me?"

"Talking? About stuff?"

Prowl leaned forward to rest his elbows on the edge of the table, lacing his fingers together. He regarded Smokescreen from over top of them. "What kind of 'stuff,' precisely?"

"Ummm. What do you talk about for fun?" A desperate grin stretched Smokescreen's mouth. "What do you like to do? What’re you interested in? That kind of stuff."

"Please elaborate."

Arrrrrgh -- wait. "Are you making a plan?" Suspicious, Smokescreen squinted across the table. "You are. You're making a plan for how to make friends."

Prowl went extremely still. "It's possible."

"Sir...Prowl." Smokescreen rubbed at the base of his chevron. "Lack of friends in any given social group isn't a logistical problem to be solved by a four-point plan." It was bizarre to look up and see Prowl doing the exact same gesture across the table. Hanging out with another Praxian frametype was sometimes like standing opposite a mirror. 

"I do not enjoy feeling disposable," Prowl said softly.

Welcome to his world. 

Wow, that was bitter. Smokescreen updated his self-care regime to include talking with Wheeljack again about counseling.

"People don't enjoy feeling like end goals, either," he pointed out. "I think you're overthinking this. Just -- spend some time off-duty at the outpost. You don't have to spend every waking moment there working, I know you don't. Actually take your off-shift the next time you’re out our way. I can set up a tactical game for you and invite some people." He grinned, thinking of who to invite. "They might take even you by surprise a couple times."

Prowl hesitated.

"We can throw Jazz in a closet. Trust me, I know one that'll keep him out of the way." Even if he had to weld the door shut.

The hesitation vanished. "I would appreciate your help setting up a game, then."

"I'll introduce you to people, too."

Prowl gave him an inquiring look. "I believe I know every Autobot at that outpost."

Smokescreen turned his hands up, smiling his most charming smile. "Yeah, but introductions will help. Work with me on this." Mostly it'd let people there know that Prowl wasn't out to evaluate them. It was still going to be a tense situation, but it'd be the first time Prowl had ever done anything unofficial among the rank and file. There was going to be an adjustment period. Trailbreaker was going to walk into another wall, he just knew it.

"If you feel it's necessary." Prowl didn't get it, but Prowl trusted him enough to follow his advice.

Unexpected, but a lot of things had been unexpected today.

 

**[* * * * *]**


	15. Pt. 15

**Title:** Third Wheel  
**Warning:** This inhabits a weird area where it’s a humor fic, but people sensitive to misunderstandings causing serious discomfort probably shouldn’t read.  
**Rating:** PG-13  
**Continuity:** G1  
**Characters:** Smokescreen, Jazz, Mirage, Wheeljack.  
**Disclaimer:** The theatre doesn’t own the script or actors, nor does it make a profit from the play.  
**Motivation (Prompt):** People on Tumblr were talking about ‘bots dribbling on themselves while fantasizing about voluptuous bumpers. It had to be written. _Voter incentive ficlet piece.* Thanks for voting!_

 

 **[* * * * *]**  
**Part Fifteen (set after Pt. 5 of Spare Tires)**  
**[* * * * *]**

 

“That’s not my boss,” Mirage said flatly. “That’s a helium balloon with doors.”

“And a visor.”

“And a visor,” he allowed. Their heads slowly turned to follow the floating bundle of doors and visor. It drifted across the medbay on a cloud of dreamy bliss, all but bouncing off the ceiling. “The resemblance is uncanny, I’ll admit. It almost looks like Jazz.”

“Almost, but not quite.”

“Mmhmm.” Their heads gradually turned back the other way. Jazz-balloon hit the far wall and ponged back the way he’d come. Bouncing, of course. Talking, too, but mostly incoherently if a mech adjusted his audios to filter out every mention of a certain TacHead. Smokescreen hadn’t reached the point of completely tuning him out. Mirage, on the other hand, looked like he’d long ago deleted half of Jazz’s current vocabulary from his databanks.

Listening or not, they moved as one to block the door like bouncers guarding the exclusive freedom club. “No, Jazz,” they said in the dull tone of people who’d repeated the same denial twenty times.

The black-and-white balloon ponged away. They watched him take another giddy circuit of the room, doing the odd handspring here and surfing the crash cart there, hitting walls at random and bouncing off in a new direction. Every once and a while, the not-Jazz would stop to laugh in total glee, throwing his arms out to spin in circles until he fell down, dizzy. It didn’t seem physically possible for him to have so much energy without being drunk, but half of Special Operations had been clustered around their boss for the last shift. They swore up and down he hadn’t touched a drop of engex. Good as he was at sleight of hand, surely someone would have caught him if he’d been sneaking some liquid courage. 

Then again, like everyone else, the SpecOps mechs in the room had been severely compromised by the presence of hotness personified on the other side of the table. They wouldn’t have noticed if Megatron had pulled up a chair to join the game.

Smokescreen glanced toward the office door. “Ambulon’s been gone a while.”

His companion in Jazz-wrangling shot him a funny look. “You do know he’s not consulting with the CMO.” 

“Um. No?” He thought when a medic needed expertise, it was natural to make a call to someone further up the line. Expertise didn’t get much higher up the line than the Chief Medical Officer of the entire faction, which had seemed like overkill in this particular case, but what did Smokescreen know? If anyone could cure Jazz, surely it was the Autobot CMO. Ambulon had gotten that peculiar rattled look he wore a lot around the various agents infesting the outpost, so Smokescreen hadn’t thought it strange that he’d retreated to his office to ask someone for advice. 

Mirage shook his head. Poor, ignorant Smokescreen. “’Consulting with the CMO’ is Ambulon’s code for locking himself in his office and ignoring the situation. Hence why I’ve called for Wheeljack, and he’s on his way. We simply must contain,” he waved vaguely at the Jazz-shaped balloon crawling up the wall, “that until he arrives. In the meantime, Ambulon will keep a commline open in case something goes wrong, but that door stays closed.” A rueful touch of humor spread gold through his optics. “It’s difficult to find fault in that. He’s, ah, seen us at our best and at our worst in his medbay.” Smokescreen scoffed, and a smile played about the corners of Mirage’s mouth. “Yes, well. We do at least try to clean up after ourselves.”

Smokescreen gave him a skeptical look. Yeah, no. He knew some of the mechs in question. Would the Special Ops PR frontmech like to revise his statement for the press?

“Very well, **I** clean up after myself. Some of the others delight in leaving equipment behind in arrangements equipment should not be, perhaps in an effort to keep Ambulon rather more informed about their interfacing habits than he would prefer.” Or because they were slovenly low-class slobs lacking in proper manners, not that Mirage would ever stoop to directly telling them to pick up after their disgusting selves. He’d just imply it heavily. His contempt certainly came across clearly enough to Smokescreen, anyway. 

Mirage idly flicked a piece of dust off his armor. “Rumor has it he is in possession of a hip flask he utilizes in such situations, but it remains unsubstantiated. What we do know is that unless someone’s bleeding to death, he won’t come out again until we go away.” His optics glanced briefly at the office door. “Even if an invitation is extended.” He sounded almost miffed by that. He must have been one of those asking Ambulon to join in.

Smokescreen could just imagine how well that had gone over, Autobot Special Ops inviting an ex-Decepticon to frag. Did that count as a proposition, a threat, or both?

For the moment, however, he focused on the more important part of what Mirage had said. “What? I mean, this isn’t really that much of an emergency,” he gestured at the balloon-Jazz now dancing on top of a repair slab, giggling madly, “but he’s supposed to treat this kind of thing.” He looked between weary SpecOps agent and the officer currently off-duty and acting every bit of it. “Isn’t he?”

“Technically,” Mirage drawled, “I believe your job classification clears **you** to treat him.”

“Hey, I did my part.”

“Yes. Resulting in,” an elegant hand waved to indicate the entirety of balloon-Jazz, “this.” 

They watched in resigned silence as Jazz bounced about. “No, Jazz,” they repeated when he headed for the door. No way in the Pit were they letting him out to roam the outpost unsupervised. It’d taken them forever and an age to corral him here in the first place, and that was after Trailbreaker went up on the ceiling after him. Lighter-than-air joy and magnetic grapplers were a terrible combination. He was walking on so much air he’d probably get out into the courtyard and float off into the sky. 

“I arranged one match,” Smokescreen muttered, sounding defensive and knowing it. “ **One** match. One!”

“You admit your guilt.”

“Aw, c’mon, look at him. He’s so happy.” Smokescreen smiled a little helplessly at the black-and-white now doing some sort of dance involving diving in and out of altmode in the middle of the medbay. 

Mirage looked at Jazz, as requested. Jazz was indeed happy. Too happy, if Mirage’s expression conveyed his opinion correctly. Instead of commenting on the antics of his bouncy-trouncy boss, the noblemech shook his head. “To be honest, I found myself surprised I didn’t have to drag him away from the table. I was prepared to.”

“You weren’t being subtle about your preparations.” Smokescreen hid a grin. “I had to make up a story about why his chest was covered in tape, by the way.”

Earlier, Prowl had leaned toward him to ask, “Has he been damaged?” From the position of blissful ignorance, it had looked as though Jazz had gone through field repairs. From that same perspective, Mirage looked like a concerned subordinate hovering over his superior officer, not the hand of doom ready to squash the mech. 

Smokescreen had grabbed the repairs explanation and run with it. “Oh yeah, sorry, forgot to tell you. He’s suffering from an inexplicable bumper malfunction,” he’d lied blithely while behind them, Cliffjumper attempted to shove his whole hand into his mouth to keep from bursting into laughter. Smokescreen had dropped one door to wink over his shoulder at the minibot. “Keeps falling off. Kind of an embarrassing health issue for him, so best not to bring it up.”

It’d been worth the lie just to see Prowl’s optics go wide in alarm.

The match itself was worth enduring the fallout now.

“You know how turned-on he is by Prowl’s mind,” Mirage said in accusation, and Smokescreen turned up his hands to concede the point. He’d known and still set the two of them up to fight it out over a holographic battleground. This was all his fault, no denying it.

The match had taken half the day, starting partway through the shift and ending only when Prowl went on-duty. He hadn’t gone back to work happily. Ironhide had needed to comm. the Praxian asking where he was two minutes before shift-change before Prowl reluctantly pulled himself away from the table, and he’d extracted a promise from Jazz that they would continue it the next time their off-shifts coincided. The game had been unfinished, which obviously bothered him. The Tachead _really_ enjoyed a good, competitive tactical game against a difficult opponent. 

Jazz seemed to get off on them. And blow a few breakers controlling his need to say something unprofessional while competing against the love and lust of his life. Smokescreen had been honestly surprised the mech hadn’t jumped across the table when Prowl demanded the game continue later. Smooth as fresh oil, Jazz had purred his agreement. 

He’d held the pose until Prowl was out of the room. Then he’d promptly freaked out. There might have been squealing. There had definitely been jumping up and down while hyperventilating. After that had come the short but exciting chase as everyone still in the room attempted to catch the brain-fried mech.

“At least he didn’t make a fool of himself this time.” Mirage paused, blinked, and corrected himself. “In front of Prowl. He is definitely a fool.” He sighed as his boss rolled about on the floor for apparently no other reason than to revel in a song detailing Prowl’s many attractive points. For a change, none of them were physical. The song centered on a play-by-play review of Prowl’s moves on the battlefield. 

It wasn’t a very good song. Catchy tune, unfortunately. The outpost would likely end up humming it for the next month.

Smokescreen held a quick debate with himself and decided he might as well add to the pot. “Is this a bad time to mention that I set up the next match to include the Prime?”

Mirage stiffened. “Excuse me?”

Across the room, the roly-poly Jazz-balloon popped up over the repair slabs looking every bolt a commander of the Autobot’s most feared shadow troops. “Another match?” Jazz demanded. “When? Where? How do I get in on this action? Do I have t’ kill the next contestant? Where’s the list. Gimme the list. I need a name. Somebody’s gotta die.”

“Ah-heh.” Sloooooowly putting his hands up, Smokescreen backed toward the medbay door as Jazz prowled closer. “Overkill much? Tone it back a bit. Nobody’s signed up for the next match yet.” Note to self: do not keep a physical list of players. Things would not go well if Jazz found it. “Winner of your game will be the opponent. Loser acts as Optimus Prime’s advisor.”

Jazz’s visor flared incandescent blue. 

“How will you determine who will advise Prowl?” Mirage asked curiously.

The bright gleam immediately disappeared to be replaced by indignant offense. “Hey! Why y’ assumin’ I’m gonna lose?”

The look the noblemech tossed his boss doubted that statement immensely. 

“I won’t lose!”

“Your failure is inevitable, therefore it’s not an assumption,” Mirage said in his most aristocratic tone.

“He might pull a surprise out of his tailpipe,” Smokescreen scolded him. “I’ve managed it before.”

“Did you win?”

Ouch. “Not in the long-term.” Short games were the only way he’d ever stolen victory out of Prowl’s grasp. Amateurs could surprise even grand masters in short-term tactics, which was why Prowl had been having a wonderful time pitting himself against the outpost in these games. Wheeljack, surprisingly, had managed to hold off Prowl’s advance across the board the longest so far, mostly by blowing up strategic points Prowl apparently hadn’t thought could blow up, but people were getting a feel for their own weaknesses. They were starting to sign up as teams to play against Prowl. The elusive goal was to grab triumph and zoom off the board before loss caught up. 

Mirage’s comment had succeeded in puncturing a hole in Jazz’s optimism. The black-and-white deflated considerably, sinking down behind a repair slab until only his narrowed visor and forearms showed. He steepled his fingers like some sort of cheap vidshow villain. Mirage covered his optics with one hand, ashamed by proxy, but Jazz was lost in plotting. “A plan must be made,” he said solemnly.

Smokescreen and Mirage gave him identical looks of amusement. “You couldn’t walk straight a minute ago, and you want to out-plan the Head of Strategic Planning? Please. Sit down before you hurt yourself,” Mirage said. 

“Don’t make us put you back in the closet,” the Praxian added. His doors flicked dismissal.

“Nuuuuh.” Jazz sank down further, the wariest cornered saboteur. “Not goin’ back in the closet.”

The medbay door opened suddenly, and Wheeljack bustled in, almost running Smokescreen over. “Oh! Sorry I’m late. Ambulon said these were needed for some reason,” the nurse said, offering his armload of bundled material. “Where’s the patient?” He spotted Jazz hiding behind the repair berth a moment later. “Ah, I see. Shall we?”

Mirage took a corner of the material, telling Smokescreen in an undertone to, “Guard the door. Flash your hi-beams if he looks like he might get loose.” The crude instructions seemed to pain him. “It ought to stun him enough to keep him under control.”

“I can hear you,” Jazz called crankily. His engine fuffed, sounding just as cranky. “I don’t need to shut down. I’m fine.”

“You’re overheated, overclocked, and need to let your self-repair work uninterrupted,” Wheeljack diagnosed without looking up from the large tarp he and Mirage were unfolding between them.

“Y’just got here, ‘Jack! How do y’know **that**?”

Still not looking up, Wheeljack tapped the open vents on the sides of his blast mask. “I can smell fried circuits.”

“…can not.”

“And you’re being unreasonable.”

“Am not!” Jazz stopped, pulling a face as he listened to himself. “I’m just excited. Didja see us, Wheeljack? Didja?” Even crouched down, there was no disguising the warm blush of pleased happiness turning his visor a soft blue. The three Autobots at the other end of the room exchanged indulgent smiles as the black-and-white bounced on his heels. “He cornered my supply convoy in th’ pass and concentrated fire on the ends to take out the gunners, but I had my engineers cross-trained as sharp-shooters so they sniped at his charge from th’ sides and he wasn’t expectin’ it, so I got 25% take-down before his turn started and by then he couldn’t do anything to close the trap ‘cause of the bend in the road, but -- “

The three Autobots nodded and smiled at his animated chattering. It quickly devolved into nonsensical praise of Prowl’s genius, but that was to be expected. Jazz was _besotted_. Nodding and smiling was as good a response as any to ecstatic squeeing.

“He’s been like this since shift-change,” Mirage explained in a low voice. “He held it together until Prowl was out of the room.”

“No open-mouthed staring?”

“Nope. He strung actual words together,” Smokescreen said.

“Wow. He’s getting better.” Wheeljack sounded impressed. 

Mirage shook his head. “It is something of pyrrhic victory to consider burnt-out circuitry an improvement.”

“Mm, well, he didn’t actively collapse at Prowl’s feet.”

Mirage paused, picturing that. “I suppose it’s a symptom of my own admiration of Prowl that I find that idea strangely titillating,” he said, oddly distant.

Wheeljack shook out the tarp. “Whatever clinks your clank.”

Mirage snapped out of fantasy. “Wheeljack!”

“Whatever bangs your clang?”

“Stop that.”

“Whatever unfolds your manifold.”

“Oh, Primus. Why do I even talk to you?”

“Because my fun’s the kind that comes with safewords.”

“Augh.”

Smokescreen leaned against the doorjamb, grinning as the two Autobots, bickering amiably -- Mirage continued to be scandalized by Wheeljack advocating free love and acceptance -- stalked their prey. Their prey, busy being a bouncy Jazz-balloon again, didn’t cooperate. He ping-ponged around the medbay just ahead of their efforts. 

He was hardly less wrigglesome once they’d caught him. Arms and doors wrapped in layers and layers of muffling material, he wiggled around as if determined to get loose and defy gravity some more. His visor sparkled in gushing enthusiasm for his topic of choice, although his actual words were now behind an impromptu gag. Mirage took another turn around him, tucking another layer of tarp into place. It didn’t deter him from talking.

“That’s nice.” Wheeljack patted his kicking patient on the helm as Smokescreen came over to help heave the black-and-white up onto a repair slab. “Why don’t you tell us more, Jazz?”

More talking, muffled but happy. The kicking stopped. He did try to roll about some, doors and arms jerking against the tarp, but Mirage and Smokescreen had taken up position on either side of the repair slab. They held him in place, grinning at the bundle of joy. 

Wheeljack’s audio indicators flashed his own amusement. “Heeeeeeey, that’s interesting. Good to know. How about you open this port?” A finger tapped a covered port on Jazz’s thigh. “Just going to sedate you so you can dream of Prowl for a while. Okay?”

Glitched or not, Special Ops mechs didn’t open access ports casually. Jazz stilled, abruptly wary. His visor stayed locked on Wheeljack, but Smokescreen bet his hubcaps Jazz was searching the medbay for escape routes, signs of danger, or an ally.

Fortunately, an ally was here. “Recharge,” Mirage said, leaning over his boss. 

Muffled protesting noises.

“You are currently unfit for duty, that’s why.”

_rustle rustle rustle_

“Yes, and you’re capable of driving on three wheels as well. That doesn’t mean it’s medically advisable, nor wise.” 

Jazz seemed thoroughly unconvinced by this logic. 

Smokescreen raised an optic ridge at Mirage and leaned over the stubborn idiot. “Think about how impressed Prowl will be if you manage to beat him tomorrow.” 

Jazz’s visor unfocused as he envisioned that. 

“Yes, exactly.” Mirage nodded. “Do you truly think yourself able to outthink him while -- hmm?” 

Smokescreen made another throat-cutting gesture at the blue noblemech before looking back down at Jazz. “Tomorrow is the rest of the game. Playing against Prowl, watching him get riled up when you take him by surprise, talking with him about what you would have done differently in the aftermath, complimenting him on how he plays, setting up the next game…”

That unfocused blue visor went positively dreamy.

“It’s going to take forever for tomorrow to get here,” the Praxian said conversationally. “Hours and hours of waiting. Just **waiting**. Minutes are going to crawl, I tell you. Crawl, Jazz. Tick tock, tick tock, tick…tock. Tick. Tock.” 

Apprehension paled Jazz’s visor. 

“The seconds will last hours. Or,” Smokescreen put up a finger as if the thought had just occurred to him, “you could sleep through all those long, long hours of waiting. If only there was some way you could do that!” 

Wheeljack’s optics crinkled at the corners in a smile. “If only there was a way.”

“I know! It’d be amazing.”

Jazz grumbled and wriggled around. Okay, he got the point. But. He didn’t like it.

Mirage firmly held him down. “I will stand watch.”

The port reluctantly irised open…a handspan to the left of the hatch Wheeljack had tapped. Smokescreen stared.

Special Ops mechs. Frag. “No wonder Ambulon hides in the office,” he said to no one.

Mirage smirked but chose not to answer.

 

**[* * * * *]**

 

_[ **A/N:** *If you don’t know what the voter incentive ficlets are, they’re me offering fic in return for people voting in the American Presidential primaries. If you’ve voted, you can **send me a Tumblr Ask** with your state and claim a ficlet or ask for the writing time to be applied toward an actual fic. Until the curtain rises next time, m’dears..]_


	16. Pt. 16

**Title:** Third Wheel  
 **Warning:** This inhabits a weird area where it’s a humor fic, but people sensitive to misunderstandings causing serious discomfort probably shouldn’t read.  
 **Rating:** PG-13  
 **Continuity:** G1  
 **Characters:** Smokescreen, Mirage, Hound, Prowl, Jazz.  
 **Disclaimer:** The theatre doesn’t own the script or actors, nor does it make a profit from the play.  
 **Motivation (Prompt):** People on Tumblr were talking about ‘bots dribbling on themselves while fantasizing about voluptuous bumpers. It had to be written. 

 

**[* * * * *]**  
 **Part Sixteen**   
**[* * * * *]**

 

Of all the things Smokescreen expected to see during a Decepticon attack, people making out in the middle of his namesake was most demonstratively not it. This was over-the-top even for Outpost 49-B6-4.

He fishtailed to a halt, shocked to braking, but the screech of his wheels didn’t break whatever private trance they were in. Since his smokescreen did nothing to muffle the battle outside its concealment, they probably didn’t notice the additional noise. They were rather occupied with what they were doing.

He'd always known lust made people into idiots -- not dissing the idiots, since his affair with injury-prone frontliner _twins_ wasn’t the smartest decision he'd ever made -- but hiding out in a smoke cloud to do some heavy petting was proof positive. Perceptor could base entire behavioral theories off this slag. It wasn’t as though the smoke was shelter from, say, random Decepticons blundering into the kissfest.

Even more impressively stupid, Mirage could turn invisible. Why the frag they making out here, of any place? There was a smorgasbord of safer sex places and times. Kiss without the explosions anywhere but here! Grope anytime but while jets roared by overhead! They didn't have to get it on while bullets blazed and people screamed. Unless they had a danger kink, of course, but _come on_. It was six kinds of unhealthy if they did.

Besides, even if they did get off on danger, they could just find a corner to make out in back at the outpost and skip the invisibility. Cliffjumper was plenty dangerous. They’d be juggling grenades if they did this without the invisibility cloak. Push it even further, and they could make out in the middle of the messhall with Hound's hologram keeping anyone from seeing them unless they wanted to be seen, and wouldn’t that cause an upright if they got caught there? Although it wasn’t likely they’d get caught between the invisibility and the holograms. Those covered all sins. 

Like cheating, which they were currently doing. Vigorously, at that.

Stupidly, being that if there was a smokescreen, then there was likely a Smokescreen, and Smokescreen had just driven straight into their make out session. Startling as it was to nearly run over Mirage sucking face with someone other than Cliffjumper, the sparkbreaking part wasn’t the cheating. It was that Cliffjumper was out there supposedly providing cover-fire for his invisible lover while Mirage ducked out of battle to cuckold him. 

Smokescreen, predictably, didn't react well to that slag.

"Dear holy Primus holding all the cards, what the **frag**?!" he shrieked, tumbling out of altmode, and Mirage and Hound threw themselves apart, shock splayed across their faces. Smokescreen’s hand shook as he pointed a finger at each of them in turn. "You -- and he -- and you're -- "

Hound immediately held up his hands in a placating gesture that did nothing to calm the somewhat hysterical Praxian down. "We can explain! It's not what it looks like, really, it was, ah." He glanced at Mirage, who faded away into invisibility. "Uh." 

Yeah, Mirage didn't do unplanned confrontations well. Too messy. The haze of smoke around them eddied as the invisible spy retreated. Disappearing was obviously the most mature response to being caught out cheating. Responsibility for his own actions was an alien concept. Why on Cybertron would he be held accountable to the minibot currently risking his neck to provide cover-fire on a mission that _wasn't even happening?_

Psht. Mirage was above such things.

Smokescreen's voice went higher and yet more offended, if that was possible. "How dare you?!" 

Hound had the decency look ashamed of himself. "Look, we haven't done anything really wrong -- "

Doors snapped straight up. For a second, the detonation of a missile outside the smoke cloud turned everything doomsday red. Smokescreen's yellow chevron seemed to burn an infernal flame orange, and his optics flared white tinted hellish red by the fire. 

Wow, that was not the conversational gambit to attempt right here and now. Hound winced and hastily revised his slagheap story. "We were going to tell Cliffjumper, um, soon, we just had to -- Mirage said he had to think about -- I asked him to say something! I did!"  
.  
“And meanwhile took full of advantage of him not knowing, is that it? I see you made no effort to take your relationship out in the open!” Smokescreen shouted angrily, waving at the haze hiding the area. I mean, what were you thinking?! How long has this scrap being going on? Are you even the first person Mirage has clanged while telling Cliffjumper he loves him? Do you even know **you’re** the only one?”

"He doesn't love Cliffjumper!" Hound yelled right back at him as though they were exchanging shots. Bullets might have hurt less. "Have you ever heard him say so? No! He doesn't say stuff like that! He’s careful to avoid it, in fact! I know, I’ve been listening, but none of you do. None of you! It's all a big assumption on everyone's part, and he's felt pressured into it from the start. I know, I've been with him since -- "

Maybe something on Smokescreen's face got through, or maybe Hound's mind caught up with his mouth. Either way, the scout shut up. He glared at Smokescreen mulishly, however. The sense of righteousness indignation poured off his shoulders. He was In The Right, and nothing anyone else said or did would change his mind. 

Smokescreen's hands curled into fists at his sides, but he managed to keep his voice level. "So he's told you he loves **you** , huh?"

It told him everything he needed to know about his own assumptions that Hound looked away, unable to meet his optics. Not his assumptions about Cliffjumper being contented, even happy as Mirage's fixer-upper, or about Hound's romantic spark. He'd known about those. The unknown element added to the mix had been Mirage's perpetual aura of mystery. The mech hid so much, and Smokescreen had made assumptions he shouldn’t have about what Mirage covered by arrogance and cool disdain. He’d extrapolated too much from what little he knew, and he’d been wrong. 

His assumptions came tumbling down, and he wasn't the loser. He'd bet on other people's sparks, and Primus. Primus spare poor Cliffjumper. The minibot had built an entire relationship around lies. He’d believed that Mirage’s occasional disparaging comments were teasing, not sincere. That the lofty attitude hid affection. That possessiveness meant love.

Smokescreen wrestled his own sense of betrayal down and spoke through a tight throat. "Look, not even touching on the fact that you're violating a whole lotta trust from everybody, sneaking around to 'face when we’re counting on that see-through aft to complete a mission," he cut off as something exploded as if to remind them that full-fledged combat surrounded this temporary oasis of isolated peace. It rocked them on their feet, and the smoke swirled wildly as a wall of air pressure hit it. Smokescreen regained his balance and continued, "I’m **going** to report that, and you better hope Ironhide holds him accountable instead of you, but...Hound. I…” He struggled to articulate concern past the loathing stuck in his throat, because they _were_ friends. “Statistically speaking, I gotta warn you that he's that much more likely to be a serial cheater. That's not me as a friend talking, Hound. That's fact. He's cheating on Cliffjumper, he's likely to cheat on **you**."

Hound didn't look at him. Smokescreen stared at him a long moment, looking for any sign he’d gotten through, but there was a battle on. He didn't have _time_ for two stupid, stubborn cogsuckers too busy writing their own melodramatic romance novel to pay attention to the real world.

"You're a side character in his self-centered story," he said as he turned to run back out into the fray. It was all about Mirage. Always had been. He'd just been too determined to see the best in the spy to pick up on the signs.

"I know," Hound said after him. He vanished behind the smoke as Smokescreen pelted off, but his voice followed. "But I want him so much."

Smokescreen's spark squeezed painfully in his chest.

It didn’t feel any better in the aftermath of the battle. That could have had something to do with the bullet he'd taken to the chest, shattering his left headlight and taking out part of his wheelwell on its way out, but most of the pain couldn't be blamed on a wound. It’d be easier to treat if it was just physical, but no, this pain couldn’t be welded over. It was a familiar pain, but it never hurt any less.

He could distantly view the fresh loss as a repeated feeling, one he’d learned how to cope with. The part of him that analyzed emotions could narrate how the next few days would go for him. Mood swings were going to turn his emotions into a circus act for a while.

For now, Wheeljack had allowed him into the morgue to say goodbye to his friend. To be honest, Smokescreen had no idea what was appropriate to say in these situations. He tended to just hold a cold gray hand and sit there, mind blank. 

It didn't even register, really, that Crosshairs was gone yet. He knew loss would sink in at some point -- it always did -- but it was too early to mourn. It didn’t feel real yet. Smokescreen just sat beside what was left of his friend, thinking he'd feel grief soon enough but mostly just feeling a blank sort of pain at the moment.

They were at war. People died all the time. He'd lost a lot of friends here at Outpost 49-B6-4. That was the problem with staying in one place long enough to make friends with the main roster. News of someone he knew dying somewhere halfway across the planet never hit as hard. Time and distance softened the blow. Seeing someone jerk right in front of him as their spark gave out, graying as they fell…

Smokescreen wandered numbly out of the morgue half an hour later. He was tired, he was wounded, and he was in no mood to put up with anyone's slag. Nobody, nope, nuh-uh, not dealing with it today.

So taking a seat on the triage benches with the rest of the wounded never even occurred to him. He saw Hound sitting there, and his HUD displayed target lock.

He spun on his heel and headed for the opposite end of the room.

Prowl looked up as he approached. "Yes? May I help you?" A patch covered missing armor on his thigh, still gray from welding. It would integrate into his armor soon enough, and a layer of paint would finish it off.

This hadn’t been what he'd had in mind, but Smokescreen decided he had no frags left. He'd just roll with it. "You! With me!" he ordered, pointing at the other Praxian. Prowl frowned, puzzled, but Smokescreen snarled his engine instead of explaining.

He turned to make a beeline for the cluster of Special Operations mechs in the far corner. It looked like Jazz had called a debriefing right there in the medbay. Normally, Smokescreen would have hesitated to interrupt, but the reckless feeling of not giving a frag let him march right into the middle of it.

"You are a cheating cheat of a cheat," he said dead-level at Mirage in passing, and the slender noblemech stiffened as if affronted by the accusation. "More on that later, but for now -- you!"

Jazz looked around before pointing at himself. "Me?"

"You." 

The black-and-white looked at him, then at Mirage, and then tipped to the side to look at the slightly confounded TacHead trailing in Smokescreen's wake. Mirage gazed off across the medbay, ignoring the matter entirely. Prowl looked back at him in blatant question, so no help there. The rest of the group rustled, restlessly shifting armor and shuffling feet surrounding them as quizzical looks fired back and forth. Nobody had an answer. It seemed nobody knew what brought Smokescreen into the SpecOps fold today.

Finally, Jazz gave up on an easy explanation. "Okay, me. Y'got me," he said, spreading his hands. "Whazzup?"

Smokescreen's doors went up, and optics widened. Hardened SpecOps mechs took a step back. Prowl coolly sidestepped to give himself room in case he had to dodge. Jazz just licked his lips before an extremely unattractive line of drool escaped, thus proving that he could be taught. Eventually. Usually using blunt objects. 

"Sit. Down," Smokescreen gritted out. 

Cautious, Jazz sat on the repair slab. 

"Put your hands under your knees."

That was an odd order. Giving the Praxian a funny look, Jazz did it anyway. 

"Good. Now." Smokescreen strode forward and slapped his hands down on Jazz's chest, above and below, sandwiching all the possible pratfalls closed before they could happen. "You. Tell him," he jerked his head back at Prowl, who looked vaguely alarmed, “what you feel. And if you screw this up, I will murder Mirage."

Mirage's head whipped around. "Excuse me?"

Jazz blinked. "Wait, what?"

Prowl's engine stalled. "Pardon?"

"I will kill that lying, cheating scraphead reject of a manifold-humper who's been clanking Hound on the side for who-knows-how-long if you fail to tell Prowl about what you actually feel," Smokescreen said in a completely level voice, not once breaking optic-contact, "so please, please do me a favor and mess up somehow."

There was a terrible stillness in their corner of the medbay. Smokescreen didn't look at anyone else, but he could practically feel every head turn slowly toward Mirage. Jazz's certainly did. 

"That true, Mirage?" he asked his subordinate lightly.

Silence. Jazz's visor flickered, and his engine rumbled against Smokescreen's palms.

"Let me guess, he disappeared," the Praxian said in a dry, unsurprised tone. 

"Good guess." Jazz looked back at him. "You serious 'bout this?"

Smokescreen lowered his helm, glowering out from beneath his chevron. It looked disturbingly like a pair of horns, suddenly.

Prowl shifted behind him. "What is this about?"

"Ahmm." Jazz swallowed hard. The yellow chevron-horns threatened to gore him. "Yeah. 'Bout that." 

He sucked in a huge breath, cycling air to cool overheating processors as his hood twitched against Smokescreen's hand. Smokescreen wasn't even going to think about what he felt moving against his hand under the black-and-white's chest. It was hard enough not dropping the whole deal to go spy-hunting.

"So I, um, like you. Prowl!" Jazz blurted out as though to clarify. "I like you! And it keeps goin', errrrrr." The group looked at the ceiling and walls, lips quirking in suppressed amusement at their boss' embarrassment. "Wrong? I can't -- yeah, wrong. I kinda trip over myself anytime you,um." Anytime Prowl looked at him how he was looking at him _right now_ , and Jazz turned a desperate gaze on Smokescreen.

_'Concentrate,'_ Smokescreen mouthed at him.

Don't look at the pretty Praxian, don't look at the pretty Praxian, don't look!

No go. Jazz flicked a look at the baffled TacHead, and all was lost.

"Iwannagoonadatewithyou!"

Smokescreen's shoulders slumped. Hands slapped over faces all around the crowd. Someone huffed a frustrated, “Oh, for Primus’ sake.”

Prowl cocked his head to the side, trying to parse the flustered glob of words flung at him. "Come again?"

Jazz shrank into himself a bit. "Iannagonatewidou?"

Oh, grand. That made even less sense. "That's it," Smokescreen sighed, using his hold on Jazz to push himself back. "Good try, you tanked, I'm going to go kill Mirage. It's been nice talking to you all, but if you'll excuse me..." He turned to go. "Anyone see what direction the fraghead ran?"

"You want...to go on a...date? With me?" Prowl puzzled out slowly, optics squinted as he separated the words. 

At a loss for coherent words, Jazz stared at Smokescreen's back, pleading for help. His division exchanged a glance and drew in, blocking the Praxian from leaving. Smokescreen stopped short as his exit closed. 

Prowl looked from him to Jazz. "Is that what he said?"

Smokescreen dropped his head back and groaned, optics closed. Primus deal him patience. "Yes," he said at last. "He wants to go on a date with you. He may explode with joy if you say yes, but he wants it anyway. He has been attempting to get your attention to ask apparently since the day he met you but fails miserably."

Jazz made a sound as if to object to that description.

"Shut up, you are made of miserable and fail. Accept the facts. You can't court to save your life, and only the intervention of your friends has kept you staggering along this long."

Jazz made further sounds, generally along the lines of, _'Well, yeah, but you don't have to be so mean about it.'_

"Shut. Up!" Smokescreen spun around and pointed at Prowl's bumper, which was as effective silencing technique as ever. "Look at this! Look at **him!** " He stepped back to gesture at the entirety of Prowl. Everyone looked with much interest. Prowl stared at him as if he'd fried his circuits, but Smokescreen didn't even pause. "We're in the middle of a war, Jazz! People die every day. Do you really want to keep losing whatever chance you have at getting to know him because you want to do this on your own? You can't do this on your own! How often do you have to prove that before you take the help!"

"Not sure this is **help** ," Bumblebee murmured.

"You shut up, too!" Smokescreen glared at the yellow minibot until Bumblebee backed off. "We could all be dead tomorrow! Take the opportunity before we all -- we all -- " His doors lowered, shaking, and he folded up around his grief as it hit in a gutpunch of awful realization that he would never, ever see Crosshairs again. He hadn't had the chance for a last conversation. He'd never play another card game against his friend.

Death took everything from them in this war. He'd be damned if it took this from Jazz, or from Prowl, or from any of them. If any of them deserved a chance of happiness, it was these two. They couldn’t go on at a stalemate forever.

A hand gently took him by his uninjured shoulder, supporting him, and Jazz slipped up behind him, holding him up on the other side. "Frag, Smokescreen," the black-and-white said from under his arm. "How long've you been bleedin' out?"

Oh. Was all the pink smeared on Jazz from him?

That wasn't the point! "It's not important!" Smokescreen jerked back from Prowl's hand on his shoulder in order to face him, bring up a hand to poke him in the front grille. "What do you say? Do you feel anything, anything at all, for this stupid mech who's been pining after you for years now?" Between his doors, Jazz froze in apprehension. Smokescreen drew his doors back to shelter the smaller mech, but he stared Prowl down without flinching.

"It's not fair of you to dump this on me," Prowl said quietly.

"Life's not fair," Smokescreen shot back. His spark twinged agreement. Distantly, he knew he was being unreasonable, but his giving-a-frag gauge still came up empty when he checked. Life wasn’t fair, but couldn’t they cheat long enough to pretend, just this once?

"Smokescreen...Jazz." Prowl dropped his optics. "I do not wish to distress either of you further, but I'm already dating someone."

Shock stunned the group so quiet Cliffjumper's abrupt roar of rage nearly floored them. Combat-jittery agents jumped, scrambling for weapons. Smokescreen blinked and looked over, halfway certain he knew what he’d see. Sure enough, Cliffjumper had jumped on top of Hound and was kicking the slag out of him as much as a minibot with one arm could kick the slag out of someone half again his size. People were sitting in various stages of astonishment around them. Those in the later stages were cheering on Cliffjumper. 

It seemed the news had broken. Good. One less thing to do later.

"What?" Jazz choked out, and Smokescreen's attention snapped back to what was going on here and now. "Who?!"

"That is not your business," Prowl said, quiet but stern.

"But -- but I -- "

Okay, that particular sparkbroken voice wasn't one Smokescreen ever wanted to hear again. However, "He's right," Smokescreen said, gentling his voice as he turned to put his arms around Jazz. "I mean, I didn't know either," he cast a look back at Prowl, somewhat confused that he _hadn't_ caught that little fact, "but it's his business." Frag, now he felt awful. Matchmaking a mech already in a relationship wasn’t cool.

"It would be easy to miss," Prowl said as if making a peace offering. "He and I haven't seen each other in a -- long time. And it is a low profile relationship. I have never been fond of public demonstrations of affection."

Jazz coughed a sound that wanted to be a laugh and failed. "I noticed." He'd noticed all the small things about Prowl, all the things that made him absolutely love the mech, but he'd missed this? He was the failest of failed spies. 

Prowl edged around Smokescreen's downcast doors to peer at him. "Will this affect our professional relationship?"

The agents around them gave him an absolutely frigid look of offended sensibilities. Please, mech. What did he think they were, amateurs? They could turn a fatal wound into an advantage for the Autobots. Mere hopes and dreams being crushed into a paste was nothing. The mission would go on.

"Nah." Jazz drew himself up, pulling away from Smokescreen. The careless mask of the officer he was fell over his face, and he flashed a megawatt smile. "We're good."

Prowl studied him. "You and Tumbler might get along, I believe."

Smokescreen froze.

Jazz froze.

Everyone froze. The muted clicks and whirrs of a group of mechs standing together stopped as if their bodies ceased functioning all at once. Shock skipped their fuel pumps and seized up their fans. Smokescreen couldn’t speak for anyone else, but he actually felt his processors glitch, cross-references crashing into each other at the speed of horrified realization.

"Is...Tumbler your partner?" Smokescreen asked cautiously. He reached for casual and flopped somewhere in the realm of urgent disbelief.

Prowl looked around, wary of the sheer stillness of the group. "If any of you harm him out of loyalty to your commander -- "

"No! No, no, not gonna happen, no worries," Jazz rushed, staring up at Smokescreen with all the questions in the world written on his face. Oh Primus, oh Primus, not good, not good at all. "No revenge, it's all good, I like Tumbler. Worked with him a couple times. You're right! Like him just fine." 

"Oh. I see. That's...good." Prowl kept looking at how everyone was staring at him. His optics flicked from face to face. "Is something wrong?"

"Wrong? Nah! Nothing’s wrong! Nothing at all!” Jazz laughed, but it strained around the edges. Prowl’s head whipped around.

Smokescreen plastered a winning face across his face and asked, “When's the last time you spoke to Tumbler?" His doors bobbed as he strangled the surge of dread building in his tanks.

"As I said, it's been a long time."

"Couple thousand years?"

Prowl gave him a confused look. "Yes. Almost three, in fact."

"Oh." The dread in his tanks was turning Jazz's visor a sick, pale blue, mirroring the shade of his own optics. Smokescreen tried to keep his voice light. "Long-distance dating, huh?"

"Yes. We -- I've found it works best for me, considering the circumstances." That pesky war and all.

Nobody wanted to say it. Somebody should say it. Primus, why did this have to get thrown on their shoulders?

"I really do have to get going," Smokescreen said quickly. "That appointment to kill Mirage just won't wait."

"Heeeeey, you're not goin' after my top agent on my watch," Jazz protested without sounding like he was protesting it very much. 

"You should definitely come keep watch on me, then."

"Great idea, Smokes! Bumblebee, you take over here," Jazz delegated rapidly, before Bumblebee could really say anything. "Let's go!"

"Yes, let's." Smokescreen gladly accepted the arm around his waist helping him along this time. "Bye, Prowl, nice talking with you, we should chat sometime." He gulped air for courage. "Sometime after you check Tumbler's personnel file for any changes that might've popped up in the last couple thousand years. Like, say, um."

"Marriage?" Jazz finished for him.

It took a second to sink in. Prowl's frown flattened into uncertainty, then apprehension. Then a furious sort of denial growing neck-to-neck with pain.

"We gotta tell Blaster to warn Rewind," Smokescreen whispered as they hauled aft out of the blast zone. "And nobody say anything about sending gifts to the anniversary party." Blaster had bounced around the outpost cheering on the thousand-year anniversary of the conjunx ceremony. His joy had been so infectious everyone had pitched in to send his Cassette presents.

Jazz risked a glance back. Whatever he saw made him wince. "Maybe we oughta warn Chromedome. Don't think Prowl's the kind t' let go easily." Something crashed loudly. Smokescreen had the feeling it was the repair berth, flipped over in a fit of total ragequit.

Ahead of them, Cliffjumper was being pulled off Hound at last, still screaming insults. Mirage stood between them, aristocratic face etched in self-sacrificing defiance, putting on a show for the rows of observers seated in the triage area. Nothing looked more noble than someone standing up for his lover. Cliffjumper screamed louder.

Smokescreen shook his head wearily. "Nobody ever is."

 

**[* * * * *]**

 

_[ **A/N:** If you’re not up on MTMTE, Prowl and Tumbler worked together before the war. In present times, they’re estranged, and Tumbler-now-Chromedome has Rewind. Until the curtain rises next time, m’dears..]_


	17. Pt. 17

**Title:** Third Wheel  
 **Warning:** This inhabits a weird area where it’s a humor fic, but people sensitive to misunderstandings causing serious discomfort probably shouldn’t read.  
 **Rating:** PG-13  
 **Continuity:** G1  
 **Characters:** Smokescreen, Red Alert, Jazz, Bumblebee, Sunstreaker.  
 **Disclaimer:** The theatre doesn’t own the script or actors, nor does it make a profit from the play.  
 **Motivation (Prompt):** People on Tumblr were talking about ‘bots dribbling on themselves while fantasizing about voluptuous bumpers. It had to be written. 

 

**[* * * * *]**  
 **Part Seventeen (set after Pt. 7 of Spare Tires)**   
**[* * * * *]**

 

Smokescreen had been in some bad situations in his time. More than his fair share, given that the Prime sent him into those situations specifically to report on what was actually happening. It was his job. He went in to spy and report back as the Autobot faction’s own internal mole. His investigations tended to center on corruption and other abuses of power. A lot of what he saw wasn’t pretty, and it didn’t leave him with a good taste in his mouth when he thought about authority figures. 

As a result, he knew more officers who abused their subordinates than those who were kind. He’d toured more POW camps that reeked of slave labor than fair treatment. He’d watched more money go into personal accounts than the people it was budgeted to keep functioning. He'd seen grunts sent to the front lines to die in the first charge for daring to speak out about injustice, and officers pulling rank to force their subordinates to do unconscionable acts on and off the battlefield. Those kind of things got the ones responsible court-martialed eventually, but only once Smokescreen gathered enough evidence to present a case to the Prime. 

Gathering evidence took time. It took risking his own neck. Every new assignment pushed his luck a little further, and he knew that this time, this crime, he could lose. Every time, he bet his life he could pull it off again.

He'd been punched because he said the wrong thing at the wrong time. He'd been beaten for pointing out flawed plans. He'd spent weeks in a lock-up for saying no, been restricted to starvation rations for refusing to lie to cover a commander's aft, and survived charging into battle beside far more heavily armored and armed frontliners because a power-drunk lieutenant refused to see reason. He’d even been left for dead after witnessing a back alley deal with Decepticon agents. 

He’d lain in that alley for eight hours, bleeding out and playing dead until the last watching shadow decided to move on. Then he’d struggled up and limped off to inform the Prime. Yeah, it’d sucked, but when duty dealt him a slagheap hand, he still played to win. 

Sometimes, Optimus Prime manipulated with the best of them. The canny fragger sent a gambler in to do the job. Nobody else would feel a high from taking the chances Smokescreen did.

So Outpost 49-B6-4 was an unusual assignment for him. It felt weird to be under officers who weren't total aftheads. Ingrained distrust of authority figures still made him flinch, doors rigid every time he had to report unfavorable results or was standing nearby when bad news broke. He'd been deployed into bad situations too often not to trust his reflexes. He kept expecting Prowl, Jazz, Ironhide, or even Ultra Magnus to snap and lash out on him any day now. They were decent people, good officers compared to the ones he was used to, yet he couldn’t help but cringe when they moved too fast. 

Explaining why he all but jumped across the Security room as Red Alert burst in.

The Security Director didn’t notice, too busy shouting, " **We need a priest!** " at the top of his vocalizer.

"Don't hit me, I didn't do...it?" Smokescreen cautiously peered over the top of the extra chair in the corner. Preparing for the worst had not prepared him for this. He glanced from Red Alert to the door. Was this a prank? "Uh. Ironhide can officiate, you know. Are you and Inferno finally going to..?"

"What? No!" Red Alert looked flustered for approximately half a second, which was more time than he usually spared for his personal life. He snapped back to normal the next second. "No, we need a priest. An actual priest. We may need to do an exorcism.”

Smokescreen stared at him. Wait, what?

Red Alert made a vague frustrated gesture at the door. "The convoy's back."

“Okay?” That seemed normal.

“Jazz is possessed.”

Not so normal. “How do you know Jazz is possessed?” Smokescreen asked as he stood up. “Is his head spinning around on his neck -- no, wait, I’ve seen him do that before, he’s got some kind of mod. Climbing the walls? No,” he mused, tapping a finger against his lips as he thought, “magnetic grapplers cover that, too. What counts as possession for Jazz?” Considering how SpecOps acted up around here on a weekly basis, it had to be something spectacular. 

This he had to see. Smokescreen went over to the monitor bank to search for Jazz. “What’s he possessed by, anyway? Unicron? Cosmic demons? Starscream?”

Red Alert gave him a scathing look. “Don’t be absurd. Starscream can’t possess people.”

“That you know of,” the Praxian muttered just to be contrary. Red Alert twitched. Louder, Smokescreen asked, “So what’s with the priest? We could use a possessed mech on the battlefield. Depending on what he’s doing, I mean. Is he spitting fire?” That would be one Pit of a surprise for the Decepticons.

Impatiently pushing one of Smokescreen’s door out of the way, the Security Director scanned the monitor bank with practiced ease. “Stop being obtuse. If he was spitting fire, I’d have called Ironhide down to reclassify him as a weapon.”

Hey, wait a second. “He’s not already one?”

“Spitting fire would fall under the category of a projectile weapon. Different grade.”

Smokescreen opened his mouth, closed it, and thought about that. People probably didn’t _normally_ count as projectiles, not even at this outpost. Fair enough. “Right. But a priest? Why a priest?” He peered at the monitors. There was the convoy, but where was Jazz?

Red Alert pointed to a monitor on the bottom row. “He says he can see Primus.”

Smokescreen took a close look at the screen. Well, then. “I don’t know about Primus, but from how his visor’s dilated, I’d say he’s seeing at least the surface of Luna-2. I’ve never actually seen a zoom function blow out like that.” The optical sensors behind Jazz’s visor could actually be seen by the security camera. It resembled Sideswipe’s mirrorball. Veeeeeery sparkly. It was fascinating in _’I read about this in a medical file once’_ kind of way. 

“We need a priest,” Red Alert insisted. He seemed entirely unfazed by the sheer shininess of Jazz’s visor. “If Jazz says he sees Primus, then there’s something I can’t pick up on my sensors in the outpost with us. It needs to be identified, contained, and either tagged for tracking or banished from the premises.” 

Smokescreen didn’t quite know how to break the news to the local control freak that a god couldn’t be neatly confined by the right prayers said here and a scattering of incense there. If religion worked like that, then Perceptor would be the High Priest and Wheeljack would be summoning eldritch spirits instead of playing with chemically unstable materials. 

Just in case, nobody should suggest the spirit thing to Wheeljack. That could only end badly.

As far as Smokescreen knew, Jazz wasn’t even all that religious. “Uh, you ever stop to think that maybe he’s exaggerating?” he ventured.

Red Alert gave him a narrow glare of blatant, hostile disbelief. 

Fortunately for awkward religious talks Smokescreen didn’t want to have, right then Bumblebee poked his head into the Security room. “Smokescreen, we’re gonna need an assist out in the courtyard.”

“Why? What happened?” Smokescreen asked over Red Alert’s, “I knew it!”

“Not to put it crudely or anything, but there isn’t any other way to put this: Prowl clanged Jazz.” Bumblebee scratched the back of his helm, caught between an elated grin and embarrassment that he had to report the status of his boss getting laid. “We need your help calming him down.”

Smokescreen and Red Alert silently stared at the yellow scout.

After a second, the Security Director reached over, took Smokescreen by the shoulder, and turned him toward the door. “Go. Bear witness to this momentous occasion,” he said flatly. Bumblebee’s optics slowly widened, and Smokescreen’s doors tucked in defensively as the monotone voice fell to a terrible, dark hiss. “And then tell him I’m going to get him back for this. I don’t know when. I don’t know how. But oh-ho, yes, I shall have my revenge.”

Smokescreen backed out of the room. Slowly. With his hands in plain sight. Red Alert was already taking over the shift, sitting in the chair to put his elbows on the armrests and steeple his fingertips together in front of his face as he studied the monitors through narrow, thoughtful, slightly mad optics. The low, pervasive thrum of a high performance engine vibrated the floor as all of his attention turned to brooding. Possibly plotting something bad for the person he was going to come down on like a ton of steel rebar. No, scratch that. He was definitely plotting something bad. 

The minibot plastered to the wall beside the door quickly keyed the door shut the second Smokescreen stepped out of the doorway, and they both sagged in relief. Smokescreen shook his head. “I hope it was worth the Pit that’s going to be raised later. Jazz better keep out of sight for, like, forever. I think he was serious.” 

Bumblebee shrugged helplessly. Red Alert was going to make his boss’ life a living Pit later, but that was neither here nor now. They’d have to deal with it when it happened. Turning, he led the way down the hall. “Pretty sure he thinks it’s worth it, but I guess it’s too late for him to do a cost-benefit analysis over it.”

Slightly paranoid, the Praxian glanced back over his shoulder as he followed. Red Alert embodied the weird double standard of Autobot Security: know everything, regardless of personal privacy, yet don’t act on it unless it became a security issue. The mech knew what everyone in the outpost was doing at any given time but wouldn’t let it influence his interactions with anyone. He was a better mech than Smokescreen, or maybe just better at compartmentalizing his personal and professional life. Smokescreen only _suspected_ what his fellow Autobots were up to most days, but that was enough to make him wish he could bleach his processors on a regular basis.

He shook the thoughts from his head as they emerged into the courtyard. “So, what’s the plan?”

“ **Smokes!** ”

“Dodge!” Bumblebee called, spinning out of the way laughing, but the warning came too late. 

Black, white, and excited barreled smack dab into Smokescreen. “ **Smokes!** ” whooped at high enough volume to make everyone’s audios ring.

" **Oof!** ” The two of them stumbled back, nearly falling, but the wall ambushed Smokescreen from behind. _Ker-thump!_ “Owww.” Battlehoned and home-abused reflexes had nearly gotten him out of range at the last second, but nope, he was caught. He uncurled, wincing at the scrape between his doors. He’d have to pull that dent out. Windshield was intact, at least.

A little rattled but deeply amused, Smokescreen looked down at the spymaster hanging off his waist. “Nice to see you too, Jazz. How’s your day been?” he asked in a conversational if somewhat breathless voice. 

From the astonished look on Jazz’s face, he hadn’t been aiming to hug the Praxian’s hips. He didn’t relinquish his hold, however. “Smokes, Smokes, it was incredible! It was everything I wanted! Frag, mech, I didn’t even know I wanted half that! I -- oh, Primus, that was the best ‘face I’ve ever had!”

The name of the game was obviously not Discretion. Too much information! Too much information for all!

Not that anyone was objecting, least of all Smokescreen. “Alrighty then. Must have been a **really** good day. Good for you.” Smokescreen tentatively patted the head burrowed into his midriff. “Had a good time, huh?” 

Jazz squeezed him tighter, doors fluttering like a frantic Insecticon’s wings. They bapped at Smokescreen’s chest and arms until he grabbed for a hold on them. It didn’t stop the squirming, but Jazz would likely explode from joy they tried to contain him right now. His speakers pulsed rapid, changing beats against the palms of Smokescreen’s hands, subsonic noise beneath the level of actual hearing. The rhythm buzzed in the Praxian’s joints and sped up his fuel pump. 

Smokescreen held onto Jazz’s doors, flapping them playfully up and down. “Aw, look at you, all happy.” He couldn’t help but smile. The happiness was contagious. 

Quiet basso horn honks of utmost excitement answered him. Beep-beep- _whoooonk_. 

He looked around the courtyard. Everyone in the convoy looked terribly amused. “He’s been like this a while, I take it?”

“You have no idea,” Sunstreaker said in his most sarcastic voice, but his optics showed more tolerance than annoyance. 

Trailbreaker tipped into sight around the supplies trailer. “We had to tie a towline to him before he’d leave the base.” Unspoken was the tale of chasing the wrigglesome mech down first. The looks exchanged by the convoy haulers implied it had been an adventure in and of itself.

Smokescreen could imagine. He tilted his head to the side to peer down at the mech hugging him. “They had to put a leash on you? C’mon, you’re better than this.”

The giant slice of sparkly blue that was Jazz’s visor squinched up in unfeigned, uncontrollable joy, and he squeezed his arms tight around Smokescreen. “Says you.” His voice fell to delighted whisper. “I wanted t’ stay for Round Two.”

“So you’re saying Round One wasn’t enough. Didn’t last long, eh?”

“Mute it, ya glitch! I was fine! Endurance for days!”

The Autobots in the courtyard looked at him in silence. The mech protest too much, they thought. 

He faltered, the glee turning suspiciously shifty as he avoided Smokescreen’s skeptical gaze. “Prowl said I lasted, um, plenty…long. Yeah.”

They didn’t buy it. There was a collective, “Mmmhm.” 

“I diiiiiiiiiiiid,” Jazz protested. Whined, rather. Nobody believed him for an instant, and he knew it. His shoulders slumped, and he pushed away from Smokescreen to defend his honor through descriptive hand gestures. “He’s just -- he’s all -- Prowl, y’know? With the…and the…and Primus, y’ don’t even know. Y’just don’t.”

Everyone watched his performance critically. That could have been feeling up a bumper or miming handfuls of gearspiders. Groping or little icky legs. Fingers in a front grille or attempting to climb an invisible cliff.

Bumblebee started narrating, “At that point, our hero let go of the cliff face and began falling. As you can see, he flailed all the way down, and ooo, looks like he caught two **big** handholds on the Headlight Mountain, but wait! He’s slipping! Don’t let go, Jazz! You’ll always have Iacon, just remember that!” He clutched his hands to his chest over his spark, looking up into the sky like a tragic vidshow star. “No matter what happens.”

Jazz gave up. When a mech’s subordinates were making fun of his illustrative gestures, they weren’t illustrating what he intended. “I kinda lost fine motor control,” he admitted, hanging his head low. He hid his hands behind his back and kicked at the ground. “Was tryin’ not to lose it completely when he asked me if I wanted t’ ‘face, but he had t’ ask me three times before my processor caught up, and I think it was an either/or situation.”

People shrugged, nodding. Totally understandable. When a mech that hot asked about clanging, all available brainpower diverted to the question. There probably hadn’t been any left over for things like, say, what to do with hands or mouth. 

They’d seen Jazz reduced to whimpering and pawing enough to know how that worked out for him.

“Poor Prowl,” Smokescreen sighed. “Wish I’d known he was looking to get laid. I’d have kept working with you, and maybe you’d have kept it together for more than two seconds.”

Jazz didn’t pretend to be insulted. Smokescreen had suffered his lack of skill enough times, and they _had_ slacked off on courting practice since finding out about Prowl and Chromedome. He turned up his hands as if asking for understanding. “You get why I was hopin’ for Round Two? Kinda didn’t, er, represent myself too great.” Smokescreen gave him a sardonic look. “No! I -- okay, mighta represented myself perfectly,” Jazz muttered, rubbing his left hand on his right forearm, but he shook it off. “But I can do better! Things happened so fast it was like a train wreck of ‘facing. Just gotta slow down, next time. Slow motion train wreck.”

Behind him, Bumblebee buried his face in his hands, shoulders shaking as he tried to speak without laughing. “Boss, y-you want a shovel so you can dig that hole a little deeper?”

The black-and-white turned to look at him. “Huh?”

“Don’t know if he needs the help,” Sunstreaker drawled. Jazz turned a baffled look on him. The golden frontliner gestured for him to continue, folding his arms to smirk at the confused mech. “No, no. Go on. I’ve never actually see someone eat both feet before.”

Smokescreen smothered his own grin. “Guys, be nice. He’s really trying.”

“That’s what makes this so sad.”

“Sunstreaker…”

“Fine, whatever. Keep talking. Maybe if word gets back to Prowl, he’ll give you a pity-frag.” Sunstreaker looked at the ground as if asking for Primus to intervene in the pitiful story of Jazz’s love life. “You need about twenty second chances. With your luck, it’ll be the start of a whole relationship based on how pathetic you are at ‘facing.”

Jazz worked his mouth for a moment. Oh, it was so painfully obvious the poor, lovelorn fool wasn’t firing on all cylinders. He’d left about half of his processing power back at the base. Smokescreen wanted to pat him on the head and tell him to go recharge until he stopped dreaming while awake. 

“Huh?” said the fool. “No, this was no strings attached. Least I **think** he said something ‘bout no romantic entanglements, but my memory files get kinda hazy, ‘cause he said it right when he was pushin’ me down on his bunk -- “

“How’d you get to the officer barracks?” Smokescreen asked curiously. He’d never seen the officer barracks in the main base. The grunt-bunks, sure, but rumor had it that the officers had luxuries. Recharge hook-ups, bunk padding, and they didn’t even have to share. 

“I…don’t remember?” Jazz frowned slowly, visor dimming as uncertainty crept in to nudge his cortex. “Swear I was walkin’ outta a meeting when he nabbed me, but that was, um, I thought it was business, but now that I think about it, ‘may I speak to you a moment’ kinda turned into fragging me through the bunk.”

“I need more of that business in my life!” Trailbreaker crowed from over by the supply trailer.

“You wish!” everybody called back.

“I’ll give **you** ‘the business,’” Sunstreaker scoffed. Shaking his head, he dropped his arms and turned to swarm up the side of the trailer. The convoy haulers on the ground began pulling the cargo harness back as he unhooked it up top. 

Jazz squinted at them without seeing them, trying to dredge up details that didn’t involved a delicious bumper or busy hands. “We did walk a while. Didn’t really think much of it then, but we had t’be halfway ‘cross the base when he laid it on me.”

Work paused. “Laid what?” at least three people asked at once.

“Huh? Oh. He kissed me.”

The most expectant silence filled the courtyard. Details, please. Fill in the blanks, here.

Jazz lasted about half a minute before he cracked. Enthusiasm gushed forth in a rush of breathy happiness. “That’s the hardest I ever been used, and **it was great.** Frag, I don’t even got words, mechs. He ‘faces like he plans missions. Like -- like he **fights** , only harder, better. Faster.” He shut off his visor and shivered, engine revving. “He went down on me like he had a map of me, attack plan on every single sensor node, and ohhhh frag.” The way he sucked in a long breath was graphic enough without the little bite to his lower lip. His doors shuddered behind him. “He hit ‘em all. He clanged me like I was a gong.” Visor still dim, he pressed his hands to the red marks on his thighs Smokescreen really could have done without noticing. 

Now everybody was picturing every glorious moment of paint transferring. Fans whirred to life across the courtyard. Work? What work? Duty? Who cared? Megatron could stride through the main gate right this moment to declare the outpost conquered, and the Autobots in the courtyard would shush him so they could hear this.

The pulse from Jazz’s speakers didn’t get any louder, but the beat throbbed through them. “You know how he plans things out,” Jazz said at almost a groan. “He just -- he found an angle of attack and just went at me. Destroyed me.” He rolled his head back, one hand smoothing up the side of his body to tweak a helm projection in lewd echo. Smokescreen’s mouth fell slightly open. That move didn’t belong outside the bunk. 

Neither did the throaty moan as Jazz brought his visor back online. “It was ‘xactly how good I thought it’d be, mechs.” 

Which was probably twice as good as anyone could reasonably expect, so a fraction above what the outpost had speculated. “No wonder you don’t remember how you got from one place to another,” Smokescreen said, impressed. 

Bumblebee nodded. “And no wonder you didn’t last very long.”

“Hey!”

“So how was the rest of it?” Hooking up, Bumblebee meant, and everyone leaned in, waiting eagerly for details. So Prowl did tactile like it was going out of style. How good was he at plugging in?!

Indignation dropped into a positively dreamy smile. “You know…remember that clone of Starscream? Sunstorm?”

There went any lust anyone had been feeling. Ew.

“Poser,” Sunstreaker muttered, because apparently nobody else was allowed to be golden yellow. Bumblebee didn’t count. Bumblebee was a minibot. Also, he was more of a cheery, happy yellow. There was totally a difference between the two shades.

Jazz ignored him, or maybe he didn’t even hear. His visor was vacant. Wherever he was in his mind, it wasn’t in an outpost in the aft end of nowhere surrounded by nosy soldiers. Smokescreen took a cautious step back as a faint trace of crackling light flashed over flickering headlights. Heat radiated out from the black-and-white. Deeeeefinitely not in the courtyard anymore.

“It’s like he kept sayin’: Primus walks among us. All we gotta do is reach out,” Jazz reached out, still smiling and not seeing any of them, “an’ touch His face.” His hand closed gently around nothing.

Everybody stared at him. 

Bumblebee gave Smokescreen his biggest pleading optics and waved a hand at the radiant, obviously unbalanced black-and-white glowing before them. His boss: some assembly required. “Help?” 

Right. Smokescreen gathered up his scattered wits. He could fix this.

 

**[* * * * *]**


	18. Pt. 18

**Title:** Third Wheel  
**Warning:** This inhabits a weird area where it’s a humor fic, but people sensitive to misunderstandings causing serious discomfort probably shouldn’t read.  
**Rating:** PG-13  
**Continuity:** G1  
**Characters:** Smokescreen, Prowl.  
**Disclaimer:** The theatre doesn’t own the script or actors, nor does it make a profit from the play.  
**Motivation (Prompt):** People on Tumblr were talking about ‘bots dribbling on themselves while fantasizing about voluptuous bumpers. It had to be written. 

 

 **[* * * * *]**  
**Part Eighteen**  
**[* * * * *]**

 

A month later, he wondered if it had been worth reassembling Jazz. From what he overheard from outside the meeting room, although he wasn’t supposed to be there and had an alibi ready to swear on a stack of Covenants of Primus that he hadn’t been, Ultra Magnus’ super secret private urgent meeting with the Head of Special Operations consisted of extolling Prowl’s good, nay, _desirable_ traits. Smokescreen gambled they were both too distracted to notice him sneaking a stealthy peek in, and the general was standing at the head of the table droning on about a slide breaking down exactly how well matched the two division heads were.

Jazz’s contribution to the conversation seemed to be a strained, disbelieving whine of semi-hysterical stress. He was curled up in his seat at the other end of the table, biting his fingertips as he stared at the pictures. Smokescreen felt bad for him. There was preaching to the choir, and then there was describing a cube of energon to a starved Empty. Everything Jazz wanted? Yes, please, sell it to him in a point-by-point presentation. 

He’d gotten a taste of Prowl. It seemed to be an effective torture. 

Sighing silently, Smokescreen eased the door shut again. Well, so much for spying on a nefarious plot. Not that it was bad Ultra Magnus wasn’t neck-deep in something lousy, but this was beyond absurd. An inordinate amount of supposedly shady things he’d investigated lately had to do with getting Prowl and Jazz together. Now even _Ultra Magnus_ was getting into the matchmaking spirit. What was next, Decepticon yelling “Now kiss!” across the battlefield?

That was a disturbing thought.

Shaking it off, he hustled off to what he was actually supposed to be doing at the base.

“You should leave,” Prowl stated bluntly as he walked into the room.

Turning on his heel, Smokescreen walked back out the door. 

“Wait. Wait, come back. I apologize. That…came out wrong.”

He about-faced to stand in the doorway. “Sounded like you meant it to me,” he said in a neutral tone. At this point, he couldn’t blame the guy for throwing him out.

Hunched over the hologram table, Prowl shot him an irritated look. “I didn’t mean that you had to leave. I would prefer you stay.” Smokescreen gave him a flat stare. Prowl had the grace to look a tad embarrassed, but it disappeared into a stony facade. “As I said, it came out wrong. What I meant to say is that I do not need your advice, and commentary on my actions and current state of wellbeing is unwelcome. You don’t know me.”

Smokescreen hadn’t intended to bring up Prowl interfacing the bolts off Jazz, but mark it filed under _Not My Business_. “Right. I’ll make a note of that. All advice unneeded, all commentary unwelcome.” His fingers zipped across his lips. “Lips are sealed.”

True to his experience talking to mechs who said such things, the demand for silence was immediately followed by its exact opposite. “I’m coping fine on my own.”

“I’m sure you are.”

“I’m over Tumbler -- **Chromedome’s** relationship with that Cassette,” Prowl spat like a curse.

“Glad to hear it.”

Prowl drummed his fingers on the control panel, glaring into the hologram battlefield. It was questionable if he saw any of the markers. “I don’t know why he changed his name officially, but I suspect it was to throw me off. I marked his file to automatically ping me if there were major changes.” 

Like death, he didn’t say, and it would have been an understandable notice for him to put on someone’s file -- if they were in a relationship. Since they weren’t, and hadn’t been for quite some time, it struck Smokescreen more as a creepy abuse of power to stalk an ex-partner. Although, knowing what he did about Prowl, Chromedome, and Rewind, Smokescreen was willing to give them all the benefit of the doubt. Chromedome hadn’t seemed to be hiding from anything the few times Smokescreen had met him. Maybe that meant Chromedome had explicitly ended whatever relationship had been between them, or maybe the guy had merely assumed a thousand years without a word from either side was enough to consider the issue closed. 

If that was the case, Smokescreen could see where the problem came from. Prowl had the sort of controlling personality that required everything outlined in official terms. Beginning and end had to be delineated, or he simply assumed things to be suspended indefinitely. But _wow_ did he need to learn to take a hint. A thousand years had been a long time between dates even _before_ the war. 

Besides, the pair hadn’t parted on a good note. A thousand years without an apology tendered from either side was a shoulder so cold Perceptor could use to measure absolute zero. They were _over_.

That was Smokescreen’s take on the situation, anyway. He hadn’t been snooping enough to know for certain. Comparing notes with Optimus Prime didn’t count. 

But keeping out of Prowl’s business left him unprepared for plunging headfirst into the role of listening audio. Sticking to a neutral observer tone, he said, “My first thought was that he’d taken the name after completing his training as a mnemosurgeon. Seems like it’s a big deal to him. It’s his job and all that.”

Prowl’s mouth tightened, not quite a frown but definitely disapproving. “Do not try and tell me it had anything to do with me. He obviously did not care about my reaction.”

Wait, what? “Uh, right.”

“According to him, we were through.”

“Yep.”

“It wouldn’t surprise me if Rewind,” ooo, that was practically a snarl, “is behind this. He must have convinced him to change it.”

“It worked.”

“It did.” Prowl’s optics narrowed. His fingers dug dents into the table as he gripped the edge. “Pettiness fits his profile. He would have enjoyed filming my reaction when I found out. They didn’t invite me to the ceremony, and they have both avoided contact with me.”

Aw. The guy was attempting to logic his way out of feeling hurt. Smokescreen took a step into the room, optics worried. Shift the blame all he wanted, Prowl wasn’t going to feel any better at the end of the day, and the other Praxian’s muttered comments were reaching the level of Red Alert’s conspiracy theories. He was hearing only what he wanted to hear, contradicting himself every which way from yesterday as emotion and logic clashed. 

“Have you ever thought that maybe inviting an ex to your wedding is kinda tacky?” Smokescreen suggested in a purposefully loud voice during the next pause. 

Prowl snapped out of the latest convoluted line of reasoning to blink, then narrow his optics in a vicious glare. How _dare_ he suggest Chromedome might have had a real reason to cut Prowl out of his life? How dare?

Smokesceen turned his hands up, shrugging. “I’m just saying! Estranged family is awkward enough,” inviting Tracks to Needlenose’s reception had been a lousy idea, “but bringing an ex to the ceremony is bad manners on a whole ‘nother scale of terrible life choices. That’d be rubbing rust into an open wound. I mean, you guys weren’t talking, right? For all he knew, you still had your gears in a twist. He’s gotta know what you’re like when you’re angry. How smart would it be to invite an **angry** ex, like, really? That kind of slag doesn’t end well.” He flicked his doors and popped his hip out, double-gunning his hands at Prowl. “Aaaaay Prowl, good to see you! Meet my new flame, no take-backs. We cool, awesome, help yourself to the buffet.”

Prowl’s engine downshifted to a grating growl. Knuckles creaked. The dents in the table became divots. Those wouldn’t be popping out easily.

What the slag, he was already pushing his luck. Smokescreen threw his hands up in open exasperation. “Avoidance might just be how Chromedome deals with emotional problems, you ever think of that?” 

Prowl snapped upright, back ramrod straight, and bits of table came with him since he hadn’t let go before straightening. His doors flared wide in preparation for laying into Smokescreen like a drill sergeant coming down on a rookie, and the floor rattled from the heavy rev of his engine.

Smokescreen’s fans sucked in quick breath. Perhaps it was his imagination filling in menacing crackles of lightning in the black doom cloud hovering behind the other Praxian. Oooooh, frag, he’d done it now. The back of his processor immediately began calculating an escape route. Just ease a step back into the doorway like _so_ , and where were witnesses when he needed them?!

A second later, however, Prowl deflated. His optics dropped back to the table. “…no.”

Huh. He’d survived. Since he hadn’t been struck down, Smokescreen took a cautious step back into the room. “No, you didn’t think of it, or no, that’s not how Chromedome handles stuff?”

Prowl’s optics betrayed him. They avoided Smokescreen. He ducked his head trying to meet them, but they slid away to study the hologram controls. “I didn’t think of it that way,” Prowl admitted quietly as his fingers played on the table. Torn-out bits of metal resisted being pushed back into place. “It does fit him. He does not cope well in the aftermath of emotional upheaval. Given the choice of pretending we were never together…”

“He left you holding the baggage at the airport,” Smokescreen concluded.

“We were never in an airport.”

“Yet you’ve got baggage like you cannot believe.” He shook his head. Chromedome wasn’t the only one who hadn’t handled this well. “Sir. Frag, I don’t know what I’m even here for. You don’t want to talk about it, but here we are talking about it. Sounds like you needed to talk.” 

The controls evidently fascinated Prowl. He fiddled with them. 

Smokescreen held in a sigh. “Look. Just…tell me this: am I talking to Prowl, Head of Strategic Planning, or my buddy Prowl the gameboard fanatic? Because one gets a salute and the other might need a hug, from where I’m standing. But, I mean, since you don’t want to talk about this, it’s offered sans advice, or commentary, or even a hug. I’ll just happen to extend my arms like so,” he held his arms out and shut off his optics, “and be conspicuously not looking if someone by your name needed some support.”

There was a brief moment of silence. Smokescreen concentrated on not letting his doors hike up. Waiting was always the worst part.

Ah-ha. Good.

Smokescreen carefully didn’t smile as he hugged the mystery person who _just so happened_ to end up in his arms. Who could it be? No idea. Clearly it was a mystery for the ages.

Then his arms were empty. When Smokescreen brought his optics online again, Prowl was standing on the other side of the hologram table as if nothing had happened. Smokescreen told the corners of his mouth to stop trying to turn up. Smiling was the wrong reaction to insecurities.

“So!” He brought his hands together in a loud clap and rubbed them briskly. “What’re we playing out today?” Usually Prowl used him to bounce hypothetical situations off of, such as a siege of Darkmount or how else the defense of Iacon could have been carried out.

Doors flicked, from surprise at the sudden clap or maybe as a dismissal of the Thing That Had Not Happened. “A raid on the mountain strongholds.”

“I call good guys!”

“You don’t know which strongholds are part of the exercise.” Puzzlement clashed with frustration in Prowl’s optics as Smokescreen claimed the seat on the other side of the battlefield. Strict dichotomies were unforgivably naïve, to the TacHead’s mind. 

“Autobots are always the good guys.” Smokescreen propped his chin on his hands, grinning. He knew what Prowl was thinking, but naïve? Please. Smokescreen preferred to think of the dichotomy as hopeful. A guideline for personal ethics. 

He either thought of the Autobots as the good guys or gave up the moral high ground, and he couldn’t do that. He could do a lot of shady things, but he was _aware_ of when he strayed, just like Jazz was aware of the energon on his division’s hands. Special Ops worked off schemes in the shadows, and they dirtied their hands and sparks so the Autobots stayed alive. The spies, saboteurs, and assassins didn’t proudly advertise their victories, or at least they didn’t brag about the dirty tricks they used to succeed. They knew how far into the dark their missions took them.

There was a reason the Autobot Special Operations Division’s base of operations was a small, out-of-the-way outpost where the garrison transferred them in as ordinary soldiers. Taking a turn through the regular ranks reminded them of the people and values they were fighting for. Shades of grey covered all kinds of plotting, and sometimes they needed a place to come out into the light for a while. 

A lot of the plans Prowl proposed didn’t make it past the Prime’s desk. Optimus Prime tended to favor the means over the end, sacrificing final victory if the cost was too high, and that frustrated the slag out of Jazz and Prowl alike. Practical planning allowed for little consideration of right or wrong, much less mercy. Smokescreen had eavesdropped on officers and even some common soldiers complaining about their Prime, but whether they liked it or even consciously thought about it, Optimus Prime was the faction’s moral compass. No matter how far into the darkness an Autobot strayed, there was a line they didn’t step over. They could dismiss the idea of good versus bad, claim that there were no stark contrasts and that the war was made up of shades of grey, but at the end of the argument, they still had to justify their actions to the Prime.

Smokescreen knew that, just like he knew why Jazz and Prowl both sported black-and-white paintjobs. It was a reminder of the line they didn’t cross, not if they called themselves Autobots. Symbolism was a powerful thing.

Prowl let him take the Autobot side. Smokescreen settled into defense, comfortable within his black-and-white guidelines. Prowl, current commander of the besieging enemy forces, promptly showed his awareness of Autobot ethical boundaries by _violating them in every way._

“Aaaaaa!”

“Hm. Missed.” Prowl adjusted his catapult units.

Smokescreen scrambled to throw everything he had and then some at the cluster of red Player One forces outside his wall before another hail of little red specks rained down upon the stronghold. “You can’t shoot mechs at me!”

“There’s no rule against it.”

He glowered through the hologram at his foe. Touché, Decepticon commander. “Says you.” Ironhide would have something to say about that. Totally different classification of weaponry, for one thing. 

The hologram table didn’t show smudges of pink smeared across the walls where the last volley had hit, but his imagination helpfully supplied the visual. Prowl’s sharpshooters further up the mountainside picked at Smokescreen’s defenses, keeping them pinned inside the stronghold as the catapults rolled forward. Smokescreen sent some of his forces into the mountain tunnels. Hopefully, they’d come up behind the sharpshooters to take them out, but that would take time. Time he wasn’t sure he had if those catapults kept pelting him. 

“What’s the point?” he complained as he pulled up a catapult schematic. “It’s a waste of troops. They’re dead on impact.” Unless Prowl was using the primitive artillery to distract him. Hmm. Smokescreen sent more of his forces into the tunnels to search for an ambush waiting up with the sharpshooters.

Rapid calculation bleached Prowl’s optics pale blue as he lined up the shot. “I calculate a 45% survival rate if they drop into the interior.”

“That’s still 55% dead!”

“It is an acceptable loss to take your fortress.” He thumbed the controls, and little speckles of red launched at the walls.

“Aaaaaa, stop that!”

Prowl’s smile held far too many teeth. “Make me.”

One of the attackers made it alive. Smokescreen shuffled his defenders around to correct that. He felt bad killing someone who had survived being flung into combat. “Evil, evil, **evil**.”

Prowl looked pleased with himself. Blue Player Two forces scurried into new formations. He drummed his fingers on the console as he watched Smokescreen move them about. “Is Jazz doing well?”

“What?” Distracted, Smokescreen checked in on his tunnel-dwellers -- no ambush as of yet -- and ordered his engineers inside the stronghold to manufacture a crude roof for the open areas between outer wall and inner stronghold. “Oh, him. He’s fine. He had to get his shock absorbers replaced, that’s all.”

“I was, ah, concerned that he’s been avoiding me lately.”

“You? Nah. He’s been kinda busy. We got half a transport of new transfers in, and the ‘Cons salted the main convoy road with landmines. Normally that’s like date night for Wheeljack and Warpath, but they’re deployed out to one of the P.O.W. camps, so Jazz drew the short straw and got stuck in charge of teaching the rookies landmine detection.” Likely as part of Red Alert’s grand scheme against the spymaster, but Prowl didn’t need to know that. 

Smokescreen glanced up at the other Praxian. Yeah, he knew what Prowl was hedging around asking, but there was no need to make a big deal out of it. It was pretty clear Prowl was still hung up on Chromedome. Fragging Jazz had been a distraction, maybe working out some frustrations, not an attempt to start something. “Don’t worry about it. Nothing’s wrong between you two.”

It’s not that Prowl doubted him, it’s just that Prowl totally doubted him. “The timing seems too convenient.”

Smokescreen fuffed his vents. “Seriously, it’s fine. I already gave the whole outpost a talk on rebound relationships. He was prepared in case something like this came up.”

Doors jerked, visible through the holographic projection. “You prepared the entire outpost for -- me?”

Ahahaha, eat grenades, sharpshooters! “Huh? No, of course not.” The world didn’t revolve around him, for Primus’ sake. “You haven’t gone anywhere near us for three months. I gave them the talk ‘cause of **Cliffjumper**.” Obviously. 

There was a brief, spirited exchange of high-velocity ammunition up on the mountainside. One of the catapults pivoted, and Prowl ruthlessly launched a round of explosives up at his own mechs. Smokescreen swore under his breath, pulling blue troops back into the shelter of the tunnels, but now the enemy knew where the tunnels were. Another volley of explosives collapsed the entrances after them. 

Prowl eyed the rubble-strewn area critically. A few of his sharpshooters had survived. He didn’t have the area information available to Smokescreen, however, so he probably suspected blue troops would be digging out to rain havoc down upon him soon enough. “Oh. Yes. I’d forgotten -- yes.” He hesitated. “How is he?” he asked as though he was prodding a recent weld. Either it would start bleeding profusely or it was healing fine. There was no in-between state for anything involving Cliffjumper.

Or Mirage, for that matter. Things went from neutral to _~*High Drama*~_ in four seconds flat around those two. Smokescreen should know. Despite his protests, he’d been elected to deal with the worst of it for the last three months. As far as he was concerned, he’d been responsible for everything blowing up. He should be the last person sent into that particular nest of hostility, but noooo. Everyone seemed to think that since he’d broken it, he should fix it.

“Angry. Upset,” Smokescreen said shortly. “About what you’d expect.”

Prowl winced, nodding, and sent a hail of red marks at the stronghold. The roof held. He frowned and appeared to be calculating a ratio of explosives to living payloads on the next round. “Has it been a personnel problem?”

“Nah, I think we’ve got it handled. He and Hound made up after Ironhide set them loose on each other in the training rink.” Smokescreen saw the munitions piles beside the catapults, don’t think he didn’t. His engineers set about reinforcing the roofs. “They both had to go to the medbay afterward, so that’s alright. They’re okay with each other now for the most part.” Cliffjumper had pounded Hound’s face into the floor until the tracker’s nose mashed flat, and Hound had kicked the minibot across the room a couple times. It had gotten the loudest shouting and yelling out into the open, at least. 

The accusations they’d flung at each other had been downright _nasty_ by the end, but it had cleared the air. They still didn’t like each other, but Cliffjumper had moved from attempting to remove Hound on to flat-out calling Mirage a traitor. It was a good sign those two wouldn’t be getting back together. 

“Of course, everyone’s still pissed as frag at Mirage,” Smokescreen added, “but we’ve gone through the appropriate channels.”

That earned a curious look. “What are the appropriate channels in this situation?”

“Nuh-uh, you don’t get that info unless you promise not to go Ironhide on our afts.”

Prowl stared at him. Smokescreen shrugged with his doors. What? Officer. An officer not directly in the chain of command for the outpost, but an officer nonetheless. 

Ironhide had brought Mirage and Hound up on charges of dereliction of duty and reckless endangerment, but they were both Special Operations. Hound, as an auxiliary support mech, had been left to Ironhide to discipline. Mirage’s discipline was being handled by the division itself. Jazz was a canny enough glitch to deliberately use the noblemech’s punishment as a PR stunt. He had to somehow patch up the flagging confidence the regular rank and file had for his division at the moment. Secret shadow troops had a bad enough reputation without adding the very personal aspect of cheating to it. 

Assassinate Decepticons? Okay. Undercover agents? Fine. But bring SpecOps under question of betraying lovers, and that brought the black-and-white moral spectrum real close to home. No Autobot was going to trust people who violated fellow Autobots. Mirage’s deception required a public demonstration on Special Op’s part to make it clear they didn’t jive with what he’d done.

Curiosity ate Prowl alive. It gave Smokescreen’s troops time to open one of the tunnels again. 

Doors twitched up. Doors twitched down.

Heh heh heh. The last of the enemy sharpshooters went down, and little blue marks took position to start sniping at the red troops. Death to Player One!

It took longer than Smokescreen had thought, but Prowl caved. “Very well,” the TacHead said as he went back to the game. “Off the record.”

Slag, and he’d almost taken out one of the catapults. Smokescreen made a rude noise with his engine and said, “We crowdfunded revenge.”

“You what?”

“Jazz took a collection in the barracks and used it to pay Perceptor to get back at Mirage.”

“What?” Prowl repeated weakly. His hands rested limp on the console. “Is that legal?”

Ooo, Prowl was distracted again. Smokescreen aimed for the catapult “Nope!” Hence why none of the other officers were in on the scheme. 

“I -- Perceptor?”

“Nobody ever suspects Perceptor.”

“I would have to say I agree.” After thinking about it for a minute, Prowl finally shook his head. “Please tell me Mirage is not being harmed.” 

Smokescreen’s minor reign of destruction came to a swift end as Prowl turned his attention back to shooting people at him, but progress had been made. One catapult down. “No, no, not revenge like that. That’d be -- well, some of us would fund that,” he conceded, screwing up his face in distaste, “but I can see why. He went and fooled around in the middle of an **attack**. That’s above and beyond just cheating, y’know?” He put his chin on his hand as he watched Prowl whittle away at his snipers. “We’re mad, and Jazz knows it, so, yeah. Making a show of things by getting Perceptor in on it. Nothing big, but it’s been stuff Mirage can’t counter.” He smirked. “So far, he’s tampered with Mirage’s paint nanites -- turned him bright pink -- and somehow made him smell so bad Hound won’t even go near him.” That had been the best prank. Hound’s face scrunched up in revolted disgust whenever Mirage even passed by the door, making it much easier to keep track of the invisible afthead. 

The terrified rookies whispering about Mirage the Savage was a close second, however. The color sabotage had been triggered by solvent, apparently, so Mirage had emerged completely enraged and dripping excess pink from the washracks right as Ironhide ushered the new transfers by. Now the whole group was convinced the slender aristocrat regularly bathed in the energon of dead mechs like some sort of barbarian berserker. They were scared to death to be alone in the same room as him for fear he’d snap and murder them all. It was _killing_ Mirage’s refined, better-than-thou image, which had to be driving the mech crazy. 

Smokescreen snickered to himself.

Prowl squinted at him. “Have you ever thought about transferring out of that outpost?” Projectiles rained on Smokescreen’s stronghold from above. A section of the roof exploded. 

Smokescreen tapped keys, scowling as his troops moved to counter the immediate rain of little red specks launched a second after the initial assault. “Not really.” He hadn’t thought about it for a while, anyway. Come to think it, even the idea seemed strange. Leave? He’d finally gotten used to the place!

Silence on the other side of the table made him look up. “Why?”

Prowl met his optics, suddenly every bit the officer he hadn’t been while they talked. “Let me rephrase.” The hologram shut down, red and blue disappearing into nothing, and Smokescreen whipped around as the door beeped. It clicked loudly, locking shut. A wash of white noise hummed as a noise distorter turned on, securing the room from spies.

When he looked back at the Head of Strategic Planning, he realized Ultra Magnus’ urgent meeting with Jazz might have had less to do with Prowl than previously suspected. In fact, it might have been nothing more than a reason to send the supply convoy out to the base on short notice. 

Prowl sat down at last, folding his hands on the table in front of him as he held Smokescreen’s gaze. “I would like you to transfer out.”

“I get the feeling it’s not as simple as transferring here.”

“No. I’m asking you to do far more than transfer. What I’m asking you to do will require you to play a part you are uniquely suited to, but to take this mission, you will have to leave everything behind as of today.” He cycled a long, slow breath. “Including the Autobots.”

Smokescreen looked at the door again. Out there was an outpost he’d lived in for years, friends he’d made, twins who’d been hinting at maybe starting something again, and a leader relying on his reports. They were his comrades and his faction. Prowl wanted him to turn his back on them. He’d better have a slagging good reason. “Lemme guess. It’s really important and vital to the war.”

“I would not ask this of you, otherwise.”

Unease unfurled in his gut. “But Jazz..?” This sounded like an undercover mission. Why wasn’t the Head of Special Operations here? 

“I have reason to believe Soundwave has infiltrated Outpost 49-B6-4. There cannot be the slightest hint that this is a set-up.”

A plant in Special Operations headquarters itself. Oh, frag. Prowl wasn’t asking him to be an agent. He was asking him to be _bait_. A target to draw an entire division out into a high-priority hunt, because setting their afts on fire chasing a fake traitor would be the best time to catch a real spy out on a crooked story. All Smokescreen needed to do was bet he could outrun his own execution long enough to expose the Decepticon.

Put it that way, it wasn’t a hard choice to make. Smokescreen turned his back to the door. “Sign me up, sir.”

 

**[* * * * *]**


	19. Pt. 19

**Title:** Third Wheel  
 **Warning:** This inhabits a weird area where it’s a humor fic, but people sensitive to misunderstandings causing serious discomfort probably shouldn’t read.  
 **Rating:** PG-13  
 **Continuity:** G1  
 **Characters:** Smokescreen, Swindle, Jazz.  
 **Disclaimer:** The theatre doesn’t own the script or actors, nor does it make a profit from the play.  
 **Motivation (Prompt):** People on Tumblr were talking about ‘bots dribbling on themselves while fantasizing about voluptuous bumpers. It had to be written. 

 

**[* * * * *]**  
 **Part Nineteen**   
**[* * * * *]**

 

There seemed to be a distressed Decepticon wailing in his lap. 

“There, there,” Smokescreen comforted absently. His hand paused mid-pat. “Who are you, again?”

Fans hitching, the guy introduced himself. Again. It was still a thoroughly incoherent mumble, especially since it was said straight into Smokescreen’s knee. 

Giving up on prying anything understandable out of him for the time being, Smokescreen went back to the dull, brainless rhythm of patting. Pat pat pat between the doors. “Yes, I’m sure it’s terrible. Shh, shh. It’ll be okay, I promise,” he lied blithely, not even thinking about it. Most of his mind was occupied calculating docking fees. 

Call them what they were: bribes. Everyone on Luna-1 wanted the little luxuries he traded in, but the moonbases weren’t exactly supposed to let people wander in and out at will, what with the great big civil war happening down on Cybertron. The Decepticons here were fighting against the pesky opposing faction. Who were they, again? Nice folks. Followed Optimus Prime. Smokescreen used to hang out with them a lot. Hmm. 

Oh, right! Autobots. The thing Smokescreen used to be.

Hence ‘docking fees’ and a guard on his shuttle at all times. His unofficial status of _Not Really Here_ was maintained through the careful application of money into the right hands. There were unspoken rules for staying safely invisible to the wrong authorities.

Which reminded him. “You realize your replacement’s not here yet, right?” he pointed out.

The Decepticon shrugged listlessly, too distraught to care that he should probably remain on duty until somebody arrived to keep Smokescreen from doing anything nefarious like betraying them all to the Autobots. Although, to be fair, he’d been assigned a guard to prevent him from sneaking his shuttle into a better docking slip. That, he’d done before. Returning to the Autobots wasn’t nearly as likely. Multiple Autobot assassination attempts had firmly established that as a dead end. Er, literally.

Which sucked exhaust as far as losing all his stuff and dodging former friends out for his head, but the sheer volume of his terrified screams had informed much of Cybertron of his treason. The Decepticons all knew about what he’d done, mainly because he’d fled halfway across the planet before booking it offworld for a while. By the time he returned to Cybertron, the moonbases were willing to take his bribes and let him dock. They weren’t stupid enough to trust an ex-Autobot who’d sold out his own base to Shockwave to cover a gambling debt, but frag if they wouldn’t buy him a drink to hear the tale.

The wary suspicion directed toward him had tapered off as the years passed. Betrayal hadn’t happened in all the years he’d been running his trading circuit hopping from planetside to the moons and back again. Everyone knew he ran the best mobile casino this side of Monacus, and he supplied small luxuries the moonbases missed from home. 

So the hangar bay guard completely letting down his guard probably wasn’t a big deal. Collapsing into Smokescreen’s lap was a bit unexpected, however. Well, not really. The little mech had been an arrogant blowhard in that compensating-for-something way a lot of people his height were while on duty, but the second the shift changed -- boom. Hard, narrow orange optics went bright and hopeful as he turned to look up the shuttle ramp at the ex-Autobot. 

“Are you still in the business?” the Decepticon asked.

Smokescreen gave him a confused look. Business was kind of what he’d come here to do, mech. “Business? I’ve got some imported wax if you’re -- ”

“No, no!” The suggestion was waved away, and the mech darted a covert look around the empty hangar before gesturing him down the ramp. Smelling an opportunity, Smokescreen came down, leaning in close to hear him whisper, “The **business**. The listening thing. I heard from Needlenose that you listen.”

Oooh. Smokescreen held up a hand, nodding. “Yeah, of course. Hold on, I’ll pull a chair down here.”

The guy held out long enough for Smokescreen to fetch a folding chair, but then, yeah. Forget the pleasantries. A dam burst. Copious amounts of pent-up emotion flowed, obviously held in for a long time, and the mech flung himself across Smokescreen’s lap as if attempting to physically leech the help out of him.

The Praxian sighed and patted away, letting the poor fool get it out. 

His partner stepped into the hangar bay and stopped dead. “What. The frag. Why is Meister blubbering on you?”

Smokescreen had the mildly disquieted feeling that Swindle’s reaction should have been less surprising than it was. “Shouldn’t he be?” he asked, faintly confused by Swindle’s surprise. 

“Uhhhhh.”

He looked down at the ‘Con in his lap, then at his partner. “Oh, right.” Sometimes he forgot that this wasn’t normal for other people. “It’s okay, I do relationship counseling.” 

“You…do? I didn’t know that.” Swindle looked like he didn’t know what to do with this knowledge.

Smokescreen shrugged at him. “Word-of-mouth advertisement only.” He hadn’t had many clients lately, but a side business was extra money, not his main income. 

Speaking of incom. “You’ll be getting a bill for this later,” he informed the moaning mech draped over his thighs. Whining protested. “Then you should have asked about my fees earlier. You want a discount on services, you’re going to get discounted services.” He briskly shoved. 

Metal clanged as the Meister person tumbled to the floor, still whining complaints. Red and yellow plating shuddered at Smokescreen’s feet, doors held low in pitiful misery.

It was a pretty pathetic sight, and Smokescreen toed him further away. “Nope. You don’t get scrap-all unless you pay up.”

Swindle looked somewhat appeased. Business transactions, he understood. “Cheap clients are the worst.”

“You’re telling me. Now **that’s** more like it!” Smokescreen beamed at the credit-stick held up in offering from the floor. “Come here, you idiot. There, there.”

The ex-Autobot gathered Meister back into his lap for more comforting, and Swindle went back to looking utterly weirded out. “You charge for that?” 

“Sure. Why wouldn’t I?”

“No, that makes sense, but -- people pay for that?” There were calculations going on behind big purple optics. Smokescreen could tell. 

“More than this, usually, but yeah,” Smokescreen said. His partner blinked at him, and he popped his doors up and down in annoyance. “Look, it’s not that hard a concept. I mean, yeah, it takes patience, but it’s good money, and half the time all I have to do is point out how stupid lovelorn morons are being. People under stress like to talk themselves into corners, I swear, and they come to me when they’re stuck.” He stopped patting for a moment in order to splay his hands at the mech huddled in his lap. “See this? I get this so often I should just write a book on it. It’d take less time.” He shook his head. “Common sense gets pretty supply-and-demand when it comes to relationships. I’ve got the supply. Relationships create the demand. Insta-money, my friend. Instant.” 

“But how does it **work**?” Interesting. Smokescreen had finally found a business venture Swindle couldn’t immediately wrap his greedy mind around. Fascination and bafflement filled the conmech’s optics in equal amounts. “What do you even do?”

Good question. “I listen?” Smokescreen hazarded. “And then I tell them what I heard. They don’t want to hear what I have to say, most of the time, so I spend a lot of time repeating myself until they start listening. The deeper in denial they are, the more money I make off of them. It’s a great system.”

Swindle stared.

“What? I’m serious. You should have seen General Strika’s bill.” She still hadn’t made a move on Shockwave, so Smokescreen anticipated being able to fuel his shuttle off another session at some point in the near future as she raged against his advice. 

No words came out when Swindle opened his mouth. The conmech reset his vocalizer and tried again. “You’re not doing anything, though. You’re just letting him snivel on you,” he said, pointing at Meister.

Smokescreen grinned. “Sure. Paid service, right here.” He cocked his head, daring Swindle to name who else this shmuck could wibble on without mockery here in a Decepticon base. Sure, Meister could just go cuddle up to his commander, right?

Swindle seemed to think that over. “I guess…”

“Guess nothing. I’m charging for it, he’s paying; where’s the guesswork?”

Meister didn’t seem to mind that they were basically talking about him like a mark. That’s what he was. Besides, they probably weren’t saying anything he hadn’t thought himself before blurting out his question. He badly needed advice, to the point of being willing to pay for a listening audio. Plus Smokescreen kept patting his back. Meister buried his face in Smokescreen’s thigh and soaked up the comfort, professionally detached as it was.

“You got Onslaught’s order?” Smokescreen asked. The hand not making soothing circles on Meister’s plating opened expectantly. “I can multitask, don’t worry. This guy’s not nearly as needy as Scrapper’s bunch of glitches. Those guys always show up in groups. It’s like trying to direct rush hour traffic working around them.” They griped about each other nonstop. Three-quarters of his time with the Constructicons involved listening to one mech bitch about the other, demanding he tell the person standing right beside him what had just been said, passing messages like they were playing the whisper game at full volume. He generally just turned to the next Constructicon and translated instead of playing their passive-aggressive game, but sometimes he padded his fees by passing angry messages back and forth for a couple hours. 

Swindle hesitated to hand over the tablet. “It’s not going to get in the way?” The question came out tinged by suspicion. Meister wasn’t part of the deal. Swindle didn’t want outsiders witnessing their exchange, not even just handing over a relatively harmless list. 

Onslaught hadn’t wanted Swindle to bring in anybody, much less some ex-Autobot trader, but Smokescreen’s reputation was good. It was scrapmetal rust among the Autobots, what with the gambling addiction and forfeited debts, but that just made a good background check so far as Decepticons were concerned. He could land his shuttle at most of the orbital stations and a few outlying bases in Decepticon territory, based on that reputation. Everybody liked a good game. They just watched their shanix carefully around him.

Besides, he knew Swindle. Knowing Swindle opened all kind of doors to him. 

Even the door to opportunity, the door that went all the way to the top. Onslaught hadn’t wanted to bring him in, but Swindle did, and that meant Smokescreen was in with the big boss -- or he would be, once everything went down, and that’s why he wanted in on the deal while the details were still being confirmed. One didn’t lightly commit treason against Shockwave, but the pay-off if they pulled this off? Kaon. All of Kaon would be under Onslaught’s heel, and therefore those in with Onslaught would be top mechs in Kaon.

That was worth the risk, and Swindle knew what Smokescreen’s security was like, just like Smokescreen knew what Swindle’s was like. Meister wasn’t going to get in the way of work. “Swindle, please. I know what I’m doing.” Smokescreen leaned back and kicked his feet up on the loading ramp of his shuttle. The smile he wore looked lazy. He looked straight into Swindle’s big, suspicious optics and fed him the best line in the business. “Trust me.”

It got a laugh, breaking the underlying tension. Grinning, Swindle came over to the shuttle ramp. “Me, trust you? You can’t con a conmech, Thirty-Eight.”

Smokescreen hated that nickname. It didn’t show in the slightest as he rolled his helm back to look up at the oily little salesmech, still lazy, a bit sleepy, blue optics as opaque as his name. It was a look that belonged in the berth aboard his shuttle, not out here in public. “You got me. I’m caught.”

Fans pulled air in subtly deeper breaths. Swindle stopped beside him, looking down, and the way their optics met had nothing of a business partnership in it. Or maybe it did, and that was just how they ran their business. There was, after all, a reason Swindle called him by his room number. One violent, passionate night in a casino hotel on Monacus had become a partnership with ambitions to expand, a financial empire on the verge of investing in a conquered city. 

The tablet with Onslaught’s secure order pushed slowly into Smokescreen’s hand, sliding over the palm in a relentless push until it knocked into the joint where thumb met hand, and Swindle applied just enough pressure to grind it there for a second. “Make sure it’s on time,” the conmech said in a flawlessly normal voice, sales smile in place. “You know how he gets.” Meaning it was getting down to crunch time. Swindle’s unit was going to make their bid for power soon. Onslaught had it planned down to the last minute, every critical detail double and triple-checked. Shockwave wouldn’t see the betrayal coming until it was too late. 

Not everything hinged on Smokescreen filling the list, but it was getting to the point where a single screwed-up part could upset the entire deal. Swindle, Smokescreen had noticed, was beginning to show signs of the stress getting to him. The conmech hated being cornered anytime, but much less when the stakes were so high. He was hovering on the very edge of bailing or committing, but Smokescreen knew him. He knew Swindle wouldn’t do anything without making a contingency plan just in case everything went wrong.

So he let his smile fade, optics serious, and swept his thumb across the tablet’s screen to brush against the tips of Swindle’s fingers. “I know. It’ll be there.” 

Look at him. Look at how reliable he was. 

Don’t look at how far into Swindle’s closely-held trust he’d actually wormed.

“Now,” Smokescreen immediately switched his attention back to the Decepticon huddled in his lap, intentionally looking away from his partner. “What’s this about? Fairly sure I heard something about being unable to get someone’s attention. Tell me, have you tried explosives?”

“Arrrrrgh,” muttered into his thigh. “I wiiiiiiish. He doesn’t think I’m serious!”

“Bigger explosives,” Smokescreen decided, nodding sagely. Decepticons always thought bigger was better, and nothing was more serious than very large explosions. “Try something with nice colors. Match his optics. That’ll impress him.”

“Don’t want to impress him! Want to…to…” Fingers twitched, pawing at nothing, but it wasn’t the usual groping of a lust-addled mech. “Want to hold him. Keep him. Don’t want a quick frag. We frag all the **time** , and I want **more**!”

“Lucky slagger,” Swindle scoffed. “Are you humble-bragging?”

Smokescreen chuckled, too, but he eyed Meister’s hands critically. Their restless movements told him this guy had already tried the bigger and better routine, and impressing his paramour hadn’t worked. “You may have to rely on your personality if you’ve run out of explosives.”

A strangled sound of misery choked out as Meister hunched further into his lap. “I’ve got more explosives.”

“So what’s the problem?”

“Everybody’s got explosives! He doesn’t care about explosives!”

Swindle looked thoughtful, having recovered his carefree sales persona by now. “Sounds like he’s chasing a popular sale item shouting, ‘Shut up and take my money!’”

Smokescreen nodded and looked back to Meister, patting him on the back of the helm. “Have you considered just…not?”

Muffled misery.

“Weeeeeell,” the Praxian drew out thoughtfully, “if not wanting him isn’t working, and explosives aren’t making an impression, it really is down to personality.”

“Or money.”

He cast Swindle an exasperated look. “Of course money. Money’s part of personality. Money, possessions, power, and fame. You know, all the important things.”

Swindle nodded. Yes, good. This logic he understood. Relationship counseling didn’t seem all that difficult from the right perspective.

“Anyway,” Smokescreen poked Meister until one orange optic peered up at him, “what’ve you got that makes you attractive? To the person you want. What’ve you got that he’ll find irresistible?”

Meister froze, optic suddenly wide. Dumbfounded shock knocked him silent, even the wibbling sounds cut off.

“It’s not enough to get him to take you seriously. You found the right payload to catch his optic if you’re clanging, but what’s his motivation for giving you a chance at more? What’s he want?”

“Sales technique for the lonely single mech,” Swindle quipped.

“Exactly! Sell yourself, mech!” Smokescreen poked Meister again. “Stop chasing and start enticing. Can you addict him to your interfacing? Does he like your colors?” Primus, he hoped not. The flame colors were beyond Hot Rod-gaudy and well into the realm of outright tacky. Smokescreen tactfully moved on. “Can you talk rings around people? Can you buy the Manganese Mountains? Do you collect obscure BDSM gear? What’ve you got that’ll make him stick around? What about you will make him go, ‘Yes, I want **that** one?’”

Meister sat back on his knees to stare up at Smokescreen. Complete horror bleached his optics pale. “Smelt me. I never thought past -- I have no idea -- what does he -- “ Lunging forward, he threw his arms around the Praxian’s waist and clung like a limpet, bleating, “Help meeeeeee.”

Smokescreen held his arms up out of the way but indulgently patted the poor fragger on the head. “I’m going to make so much money off this sucker,” he said happily.

Swindle looked impressed. 

 

**[* * * * *]**


End file.
